UC-NRLF 


*B    MOD    SEE 


BY    THE    AUTHOR   OF    "MIMIC    LIFE." 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS; 

OR, 

€igljt  gears  on  i\t  ^tn^z. 

WITH    A    FINE    PORTRAIT    OF    THE    AUTHOR. 
Price  $1.25. 

JEfoentietf)  JEfjousanti. 


TICKNOR   &  FIELDS 

Are  the  publishers  of  the  above  work,  which  has  proved  one 
of  the  most  popular  books  ever  printed  in  America.  All 
over  the  country  it  has  received  the  most  marked  attention, 
and  elicited  universal  commendation. 

FROM  THE  PREFACE. 
If  one  struggling  sister  in  the  great  human  family,  while 
listening  to  the  history  of  my  life,  gain  courage  to  meet  and 
brave  severest  trials  ;  if  she  learn  to  look  upon  them  as 
blessings  in  disguise  ;  if  she  be  strengthened  in  the  perform- 
ance of  "  daily  duties,"  however  "  hardly  paid  ;  "  if  she 
be  inspired  with  faith  in  the  power  imparted  to  a  strong  will, 
whose  end  is  good  —  then  I  am  amply  rewarded  for  my 
labor.  Anna  Cora  Mo  watt. 


OPINIONS   OF  THE  PRESS. 

We  have  read  this  book  through  with  more  than  the  inter- 
est of  a  romance.  The  fair  authoress  herself  is  one  of  the 
rarest  of  heroines.  Her  eight  years  upon  the  stage  furnish 
a  volume  of  the  most  entertaining  and  instructive  experience. 
But  this  is  not  all,  —  not  the  most  interesting  portion  of  her 
remarkable  book.  She  begins  with  her  infancy,  and  intro- 
duces us  to  the  bright  little  butterfly  girl  sporting  among 
the  flowers  of  La  Castagne,  in  France,  where  she  happened 
to  be  born.  She  gives  us  a  brief  sketch  of  her  family, 
descendants,  on  the  maternal  side,  of  Francis  Lewis,  one  of 
the  heroic  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 


We  then  follow  her  in  a  stormy  voyage  across  the  Atlan- 
tic, in  which  she  was  shipwrecked,  when  two  little  brothers 
were  washed  overboard ;  one  was  rescued,  but  il  the  other  was 
lost."  She  then  naively  sketches  the  history  of  her  school- 
day  joys  and  sorrows,  ending  with  an  elopement  and  a  pre- 
cocious marriage.  All  the  details,  both  tragic  and  comic, 
are  given  with  the  most  amusing,  often  affecting  particularity  ; 
and  the  sympathetic  reader  is  involuntarily  led  to  make  her 
joys  and  sorrows  his  own.  Like  every  true  chapter  of 
checkered  human  life,  the  lights  and  shadows  are  nearly 
equally,  often  fitfully  blended,  and  we  are  alternately  moved 
to  tears  and  laughter.  —  New  York  Mirror. 

One  of  the  few  books  which  it  is  difficult  to  lay  down  till 
every  page  is  read  is  the  "  Autobiography  of  Mrs.  Mowatt." 
I  have  actually  stolen  the  time  which  ought  to  have  been 
appropriated  to  certain  special  demands,  to  look  through  the 
pages  of  this  strange  volume.  To  look  at  any  chapter  of 
contents  is  sure  to  send  you  to  the  text ;  and  to  start  with 
the  text  is  to  rivet  your  attention,  in  spite  of  every  extra- 
neous call.  Mrs  Mo  watt's  Autobiography  will  have  a 
permanent  place  in  American  literature.  Edition  after 
edition  will  come  from  the  press.  It  will  be  the  exciting 
theme  of  book  notices,  and  even  of  labored  reviews.  —  New 
Covenant. 

These  personal  memoirs  are  replete  with  romantic  inter- 
est. The  life  of  Mrs.  Mowatt  has  been  an  eventful  one, 
beyond  that  even  of  most  actresses ;  and  it  is  not  alone 
her  personal  friends  who  will  find  this  volume  full  of  inter- 
est. Every  one  who  has  witnessed  the  impersonations  of 
the  talented  actress,  and  who  has  heard  something  of  her 
romantic  story,  will  eagerly  avail  themselves  of  this  oppor- 
tunity to  learn  more  of  one  whose  life  has  been  one  of 
singular  vicissitudes,  and  whose  experience  must,  of  neces- 
sity, be  rich  in  personal  reminiscence.  The  book  has  the 
interest  of  a  novel  from  beginning  to  end.  The  tone  is 
high  and  unaffectedly  religious  ;  and  while  the  author  vindi- 
cates the  profession  which  she  is  about  to  quit,  she  mingles 
words  of  counsel  with  her  farewell,  which  cannot  fail  to 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 


benefit  those  for  whom  they  are  intended.  —  Dollar  News- 
paper. 

Mrs.  Mo  watt  is  certainly  one  of  the  cleverest  women 
living.  In  all  that  she  undertakes  she  succeeds,  and  this 
not  so  much  by  force  of  genius  as  by  her  womanly  tact,  and 
a  degree  of  energy  that  could  scarcely  be  expected  in  so 
slight  and  delicate  a  frame  as  hers.  She  has  written  good 
poetry  ;  good  magazine  sketches  ;  the  best  of  modern  Amer- 
ican comedies  (Fashion) ;  a  capital  poetical  drama  ( Armand)  ; 
has  taken  high  rank  as  an  actress,  and  now  she  has  given  to 
the  world  the  pleasantest  bit  of  autobiography  that  we  have 
seen  for  a  long  time.  It  is  a  frank,  simple  narrative,  with 
little  affectation,  and  no  more  egotism  than  is  always  unavoid- 
able where  the  narrator  is  the  heroine.  Her  school-days,  her 
courtship  and  elopement,  her  domestic  habits,  her  reverses, 
her  career  as  a  public  reader  and  actress,  at  home  and  abroad, 
her  widowhood,  and  everything  in  her  recent  history,  except 
her  second  courtship,  which  is  to  take  her  from  public  life, 
are  admirably  told.  Anecdotes  abound  in  the  volume ; 
and  there  is  not  a  page  that  does  not  exhibit  the  traits  of  a 
truly  "  smart  "  woman.  We  shall  not  be  surprised  if  this 
book  takes  the  lead  of  all  others  in  popularity  this  season.  — 
Philadelphia  Mail. 

*  *  *  We  have  been  looking  for  this  volume  with  some 
interest,  and  now  that  it  has  at  length  reached  us,  we  give 
it  the  cordial  welcome  due  to  its  intellectual  writer,  who  is 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  females  that  has  ever  graced 
the  American  boards.  The  Autobiography  makes  a  hand- 
some volume  of  four  hundred  and  forty-eight  duodecimo 
pages,  well  printed  and  bound.  The  scenes,  incidents,  and 
characters,  so  graphically  presented,  are  distributed  through 
various  portions  of  this  country  and  Europe,  and  give  the 
details  of  a  most  varied  and  interesting  life,  passed  among 
vicissitudes  of  exceedingly  bright  and  darkly  adverse  for- 
tune. It  has  much  the  air  of  romance,  and  portions  possess 
a  truly  dramatic  and  effective  interest.  The  portrait  that 
adorns  the  frontispiece  looks  full  of  truthful  earnestness, 
and    almost    speaks    the    author's    bright    and    sparkling 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 


thoughts,  the  emotions  flashing  in  the  exuberance  of  flow- 
ing spirits  and  expressive  animation,  which  wreathe  the 
whole  countenance  in  smiles.  —  Saturday  Courier. 

It  is  with  the  greatest  simplicity  and  candor  of  thought 
and  expression,  with  the  modesty  and  true  refinement  which 
made  her  so  beloved  in  private  life,  and  respected  in  her 
successful  career.  There  is  so  much  naturalness  and  kindly 
spirit  in  every  page,  that  we  think  no  one  can  rise  from  its 
perusal  without  feeling  they  have  made  the  acquisition  of 
a  very  charming  friend,  whom  they  will  delight  to  meet 
again  in  her  own  person.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  playful- 
ness in  her  temper,  which  has  fine  scope  amid  the  various 
people  and  scenes  among  which  her  profession  led  her.  Her 
passing  notice  of  cotemporary  celebrities  is  always  interest- 
ing and  to  the  purpose.  Miss  Martineau  and  mesmerism, 
in  their  connection,  are  very  fully  and  boldly  handled.  Her 
defence  of  the  stage  is  sustained  by  a  good  deal  of  research 
and  good  sense.  There  were  portions  of  her  domestic  rela- 
tions and  personal  narrative  that  are  very  touching  ;  but  we 
leave  our  readers  to  receive  their  sweetness  and  sadness 
from  the  book  itself.  The  laurels  are  still  new,  and  fresh, 
and  green,  on  her  brow.  Those  who  have  seen  her  beautiful 
embodiment  of  the  most  lovely  and  powerful  characters  will 
ever  remember  these  occasions  as  among  the  most  interesting 
in  their  experience  ;  and  those  who  have  but  this  opportunity, 
and  who,  in  her  withdrawal  from  the  stage,  can  never  hope  to 
be  moved  by  her  personations,  will  repent  more  than  ever 
their  loss.  —  New  Bedford  Mercury. 


^Wf/KO/fr/ti 


THE    PROMPTER'S    DAUGHTER. 


MIMIC  LIFE; 


OR 


BEFORE  AND'  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN. 


A  SERIES  OF  NARRATIVES, 


ANNA   CORA   RITCHIE 

(FORMERLY  MRS.  MOW  ATT), 

AUTHOR  OF  "AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS,"  "ARMAND,"  "FASHION,"  ETC. 


He  who  feels  contempt 
For  any  living  thing,  hath  faculties 
Which  he  has  never  used  ;  and  thought  with  him 
Is  in  its  infancy.  Wordsworth. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LVI. 


/f**. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 

WILLIAM  FOUSIIEE  RITCHIE, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UTERIOTTPBO     BY 

HOB  ART   ft   R0BB1N8, 

New  England  Type  and  Stereotype  Founderj, 

BOSTON. 


SUtfectfonatds  IPefcUattb 

TO 

SAMUEL      Gr.     OaDEN. 


My  Father: 

Whose  n^me  but  yours  could  I  inscribe  upon  thi3  volume,  commenced  in  my 
southern  home,  but  two  thirds  written  at  the  very  desk  over  which  your  own 
honored  form  has  bowed  for  more  than  half  a  century  ;  —  written  in  this  sunny 
little  chamber,  which  is  hallowed  to  me  by  such  a  host  of  old  associations  ?  All 
harmonious  influences  have  combined  to  render  my  labor  light,  and  full  of  love. 
The  very  pine-trees,  tossing  their  familiar  plumes  at  the  window,  have  aided  in 
sending  back  my  thoughts 

"  Along  the  pebbled  shore  of  memory," 

that  I  might  gather  up  the  shells  life's  surges  cast  at  my  wandering  feet ;  for  my 
task  has  consisted  in  remembering,  not  inventing. 

What  this  book  will  be  to  the  world  I  cannot  judge  ;  to  you,  my  beloved 
father,  be  it  a  remembrance  of  the  brief  months  that,  beneath  your  hospitable 
roof,  have  fled  so  happily  for 

Your  daughter, 

ANNA  CORA  RITCHIE. 
Ravbnswood,  October  21th,  1855. 


M124574 


PREFACE 


To  record  the  singular  incidents  that  occurred 
around  me,  and  sketch  the  striking  histories  which 
awakened  my  interest,  was  a  favorite  employment 
during  a  professional  career  of  nine  years.  Out  of 
the  many-colored  webs  of  life  thus  collected  the  nar- 
ratives that  compose  this  volume  are  woven.  Fiction 
has  lent  but  few  embellishing  touches.  Truth  is  left 
to  proclaim  her  own  strangeness.  Should  this  work 
achieve  the  object  contemplated,  its  readers  will  re- 
ceive a  more  correct  impression  of  some  unlaurelled 
laborers  for  the  public  amusement  than  is  generally 
entertained.  Between  them  and  the  every-day  world 
the  curtain  of  prejudice  has  fallen  in  impenetrable 
folds.  From  its  fatal  shadow  those  alone  who  climb 
to  the  highest  pinnacles  of  fame  emerge.    Yet  among 


6  PREFACE. 

the  most  lowly  of  the  proscribed  band  there  are  many 
whose  lives  bear  witness  that  Heaven  plants  its  flowers 
and  scatters  its  pearls  in  unexpected  places.  Look 
for  them,  you  who  judge  rashly,  before  you  pronounce 
that  they  have  no  existence  there  ! 

ANNA  CORA  RITCHIE. 
Ravenswood,  October  27th,  1855. 


CONTENTS. 


STELLA. 


CHAPTER    I. 

p 

A  Sheriff's  Sale.  —  Faithful  Mattie.  —  Stella.  —  The  Sudden  Proj- 
ect. —  Ernest  Rosenvelt,  the  Tragedian.  —  A  Mourner  without 
Hope.  —  Stella's  Startling  Disclosure  to  Mrs.  Rosenvelt.  — 
Apathy  of  the  Mother,  and  Fixed  Resolution  of  the  Daughter. — 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oakland.  —  Stella's  Visit  to  their  Cottage.  —  Mr. 
Oakland's  Repugnance  to  the  Theatrical  Profession.  —  Futile 
Endeavors  to  discourage  his  Impetuous  Pupil. — A  Reluctant 
Consent.  — The  Study  of  Juliet.  — The  First  Lesson.  —  Effects 
upon  Stella's  Highly-wrought  Imagination.  —  The  Widowed 
Mother's  Alarm.  —  Losing  one's  Identity. — The  Expected 
Letter. — Disappointment.  —  Enthusiasm  that  Runs  Riot. — 
Genius  and  Mediocrity, 


CHAPTER    II. 

Ernest's  Letter  to  his  Sister.  —  His  Views  of  the  Stage.  —  Unper- 
illed  Chastity.  —  A  Rrother's  Entreaties.  —  Stella's  Unaltered 
Resolve. — Self-Will.  —  Application  to  Managers.  —  An  Anx- 
ious Interval.  —  Mr.  Oakland's  Disregarded  Warning.  —  A  Self- 
reliant  Nature.  —  A  Venture.  —  The  Stage  Door.  —  First  En- 
trance behind  the  Scenes.  —  Sudden  Intrusion  upon  a  Lugubrious 
Manager.  —  Mr.  Grimshaw's  Mysterious  Inquiries.  —  Stella's 
Confusion.  —  Request  to  read.  —  Recital  of  Portia's  Address  to 
Shylock. — The  Unexpected  Interruption.  —  Insolence  of  an 
Actress.  —  Stella  and  Mattie's  Retreat  from  the  Manager's 
Office.  —  Disconcerted,  not  Conquered.  —  An  Inspiring  Para- 
graph. —  Obituary  of  the  Young  Actress,  Lydia  Talbot.  —  A 
Mantle  for  Shoulders  yet  Unfound.  —  Mr.  Belton's  Advertise- 
ment for  a  "  Leading  Lady."  —  "Eureka!" 30 


Vin  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    III. 

Light  in  which  Mr.  Belton  regarded  his  Company  and  his  Audi, 
ence.  —  A  Conscientious  Manager.  —  An  Inexplicable  but  very 
General  Hallucination. — Stella's  Interview  with  Mr.  Belton. 

—  A  Wished-for  Result.  —  Explanations  and  Stipulations.  — 
An  Important  Item  forgotten  by  the  Dramatic  Candidate.  — 
Prosaic  Business  Arrangements.  —  An  Engagement.  —  The  Con- 
tract. —  Ten  Days  before  the  Debut.  —  Cabalistic  Words  of  the 
First  "Call."  —  Stella's  Irresistible  Entreaties  to  her  Tutor. — 
The  Novice's  First  Rehearsal.  —  Aspect  behind  the  Scenes. — 
Illusions  Dissolved.  —  Mr.  Allsop,  the  Prompter. — Fisk,  the 
Call-Boy.  —  Fantasticalities  of  Fisk.  —  Stella's  Perturbation.  — 
Formal  Introductions.  —  Virginius  Rehearsed.  —  Sensations  of 
the  Novice. — The  Manager's  Command.  —  Derision  of  Actors. 
— Wavering.  —  The  Alternative.  —  Decision  before  it  is  too 
late.  —  A  New  and  Convenient  Style  of  Declamation.  —  Ro- 
mance Dethroned.  —  The  Nimble-tongued  Icilius.  —  Dentatus 
on  Crutches.  —  A  High-spirited  Girl  metamorphosed  into  a 
Conscious  Automaton.  —  Mrs.  Fairfax. — Heavenly  Music  of 
Sympathy.  —  Theatrical  Formalities  at  an  End.  —  Fisk's  Orac- 
ular Decision. — The  Novice  Disheartened.  —  "Feathers  of 
Lead," 46 

CHAPTER    IV. 

The  Morning  of  the  Debut.  —  Emotions  at  First  Sight  of  the  Pla- 
card.—  The  Second  Rehearsal.  —  Mr.  Tennent. — The  Great 
Tragedian's  Manifestations  of  Importance.  —  Friendly  Hints  of 
Mrs.  Fairfax.  —  Mr.  Tennent's  Disdain  of  the  Novice.  —  The 
Crushed  Hat.  —  Unconcern  of  the  Stage-Manager.  —  The  Bal- 
let-Girl and  her  Brother,  the  Witless  Basket-Carrier.  —  A  Sad 
History.  —  The  Ballet-Girl's  Devotion  to  a  Brutalized  Father. 

—  Unrest.  —  Heart-Sinkings.  —  Arrival  of  Perdita  and  Flor- 
izel. — Perdita's  Effect  upon  Stella.  —  Chilling  Gloom  of  a 
Theatre  at  Twilight.  — The  Star  Dressing-Room.  — The  Officious 
Mrs.  Bunce.  —  The  Dresser's  Volunteered  Information.  —  Her 
Treatment  of  the  Novice.  —  Virginia's  Toilet.  — A  Discussion. 

—  Tender  Care  of  an  Experienced  and  Compassionate  Actress. 

—  Wanderings  behind  the  Scenes. — Comfortless  Localities. — 
The  Green-Room.  —  Mr.  Martin,  the  Rheumatic  Martyr.  — 
Wonderful  Effects  of  Excitement  upon  Physical  Ailments.  —  The 
Prompter's  Seat.  —  Fisk's  Humorous  Impertinence.  —  The  Sur- 
reptitious Aperture  in  the  Green  Curtain.  —  First  Peep  at  the 
Audience. — Brief  Visit  of  Mr.  Oakland.  —  First  Music. — 
Second  Music.  —  Third  Music.  —  Increasing  Terror  of  the  Nov- 
ice.—  Sudden  Diversion  of  her  Thoughts.  —  Perdita  and  her 
Father. — Rising  of  the  Curtain.  —  Sandalled  Feet  a  Moment 
Visible.  —  Fisk's  Enjoyment. — Change  of  Scene.  —  Actors 
Pouring  from  the  Green-Room.  — The  Agonies  of  Stage  Fright. 

—  Darkness  in  Light.  —  The  Debut.  —  Churlish  Treatment  from 
the  Representative  of  Virginius.  —  Mechanical  Obedience  of 
the  Novice.  —  Spell  Broken.  —  The  Soliloquy.  —  Stella's  Per- 
formance of  Virginia.  —  The  Manager's  Cautious  Comment.  — 
The  Debutante's  Return  Home, 64 


CONTENTS.  IX 


CHAPTER    V. 


The  Weight  of  New  Responsibility.  —  Fate  of  Public  Idols.  — 
Shakspeare  at  the  Toilet.  —  Mental  Aliment.  —  Rehearsal  of 
Desdemona.  —  Mr.  Oakland's  Analytical  Criticisms.  —  The  Sec- 
ond Night  behind  the  Scenes.  —  Floy.  —  The  Ballet-Girl's  Re- 
quest. —  Stella's  Dreams  of  Future  Power.  —  Perdita,  and  her 
Senatorial  Parent.  — The  Call-Boy's  Rebuke  of  the  Novice. — 
Return  of  Stage  Fright.  —  A  Blustering  Othello.  —  Desdemo- 
na's  Entrance  in  the  Council-Chamber.  —  Stella's  Conception 
of  the  Character.  —  Evidences  of  Genius.  —  Unfortunate  Em- 
brace of  the  Moor  and  Lady.  —  Meeting  of  the  Sublime  and 
Absurd.  —  Stella's  Fall  from  Poetic  Heights.  —  An  Awkward 
Predicament. — Timely  Advice  of  Mrs.  Fairfax.  —  Stella  again 
surrenders  herself  to  the  Magic  of  Personation.  —  Powers  of 
the  Young  Actress  Unfolded.  —  Salient  Points.  —  The  Spell 
accidentally  dissolved  by  a  Well-meaning  Friend.  —  Fifth  Act. 

—  Unanticipated   Violence   of   the    Tragedian.  —  Desdemona's 
Suffocation.  —  Kind  Assistance  of  Mrs.  Fairfax.  —  The  Picture. 

—  Gradually  increasing  Tortures  of  Desdemona's  Position.  — 
Lost  Consciousness, 93 


CHAPTER    VI. 

An  Energizing  Will  conquering  Physical  Prostration.  —  The 
Actor's  Private  Sufferings  set  aside.  —  Rehearsal  of  Lady  of 
Lyons.  —  Mystery  that  enveloped  Mrs.  Pottle's  Straying  into 
the  Profession.  —  Her  Peculiar  Attainments.  —  Amusing  Ec- 
centricities.—  Literal  Translation  of  the  Eminent  Tragedian's 
Command.  — Merriment  of  the  Actors.  —  Wrath  of  Mr.  Ten- 
nent.  — Mrs.  Pottle's  Efforts  to  "  Back  Up."  —  Fisk's  Ex- 
uberant Delight.  —  Company  assembled  in  Green-Room  for 
Reading  of  New  Play.  —  Murmurs.  —  The  Author's  Entrance. 
—  The  Reading.  —  Disrespectful  Treatment  of  Mr.  Percy  by 
his  Auditors.  —  Distribution  of  Parts.  —  Mrs.  Pottle's  Queen- 
ly Honors.  —  Mr.  Percy's  Discomposure.  —  Disparaging  Re- 
marks and  Complaints.  —  Perdita  redeems  her  Promise.  — 
The  Young  Ballet-Girl's  View  of  Life  and  Death.  —  Rainy 
Evening. — Skyey  Influences.  —  The  Fictitious  Bouquet. — 
The  Tragedian's  Abstraction.  —  Involuntary  Asides  of 
Claude.  —  Mr.  Martin.  —  Mind  over  Matter.  —  Which  is  Vic- 
torious in  an  Actor's  Life.  —  Stella's  Personation  of  the  Lady 
of  Lyons.  —  Inevitable  Shortcomings  of  a  Novice.  —  The 
Press  aroused.  —  Inconstancy  of  the  Public.  —  A  New  Idol 
lifted  to  Lydia  Talbot's  Pedestal. — Honeyed  Poison.  —  In- 
gratitude the  Consequence  of  Sudden  Brilliant  Success.  — Its 
Cure, 115 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Cast  of  Evadne.  —  Miss  Doran.  —  Thunder  and  Pap.  —  Jeal- 
ousy. —  First  Rehearsal  of  the  New  Play.  —  The  Youthful 
Author  and  Actress.  —  A  Strange  Phase  of  Professional  Life. 


CONTENTS. 


—  Pegasus  Struggling  with  the  Plough. — Ruthless  Suppres- 
sion of  Poetic  Gems.  — Miss  Doran's  Comments  upon  the  Ne- 
ophytes.—  First  Entrance  of  Angry  Passions  into  a  Gentle 
Heart. — A  Decree  of  Providence,  and  its  Object.  —  Repre- 
sentation of  Evadne.  —  Miss  Doran's  Persecutions  of  the 
Novice.  —  Grand  Climax  of  the  Play.  —  Miss  Doran  in  the 
Hall  of  Statues.  —  Her  Cruel  Plot.  —  Bitterness  of  the  Rival 
Actresses.  —  The  Poem.  —  Revery  of  the  Young  Actress.  — 
Unconscious  Betrayal  of  a  Dawning  Sentiment. — Night 
Vigils.  —  Palms  of  Honor  for  the  Young  Poet  from  the  Hands 
of  the  Actress.  —  Last  Rehearsal  of  New  Play. — A  Stronger 
Hope  weighed  against  the  Ambition  of  the  Dramatist.  —  Con- 
spiracy of  the  Actors.  — The  Wreath  of  White  Roses.  —  The 
New  Drama  performed.  —  Action  of  the  Play.  —  The  Author 
behind  the  Scenes.  —  The  Play's  Success  in  Peril.  —  Saved  for 
a  time  by  Stella  and  Miss  Doran.  —  Reendangered  by  the 
Troubled  Tragedian.  —  Mrs.  Pottle's  Representation  of  Maj- 
esty.—  Evidence  of  her  Laudable  Pursuits  in  the  Green- 
Room.  —  Boisterous  Merriment  of  the  Audience.  —  Inquiry 
of  a  Wag.  —  Vagaries  of  Crestfallen  Royalty.  —  Agonies  of 
the  Author.  —  Mr.  Doran's  Admonition  to  his  Daughter.  — 
Mrs.  Pottle's  Conflagration.  —  Panic  and  General  Confusion. 

—  Queries  of  the  Manager.  —  A  Ludicrous  Discovery.  —  Un- 
fortunate Mrs.  Pottle. — The  Play's  Unanticipated  Termina- 
tion. —  A  Friend's  Advice  to  the  Author.  —  His  Flight.  — The 
Young  Actress  at  her  Chamber  Window.  —  A  Recognition,  .    129 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

Second  Performance  of  Virginia.  — Jealousy  of  Miss  Doran.  — 
Impertinent  Advances  of  Mr.  Swain. — Sabbath.  —  Stella's 
First  Recognition  of  its  Blessedness.  —  Accidental  Meeting 
with  Mr.  Percy.  —  Kindred  Spirits.  —  The  Young  Author's 
Dream.  —  Rehearsal  of  Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  —  Omission 
of  Offensive  Lines. — Miss  Doran's  Consequent  Derision. — 
Stella's  Failure  in  the  Personation  of  the  Sparkling  Beatrice. 

—  Miss  Doran's  Triumph  as  Hero.  —  A  Night  of  Torment.  — 
The  Merciless  Critique.  —  Bitter  Reflections  of  the  Novice 
upon  the  Life  she  has  entered.  —  Second  Performance  of 
Evadne.  —  Another  Frightful  Night.  —  Rehearsal  of  Juliet. 

—  Singular  Change  in^Stella's  Demeanor.  —  Alarm  of  Mrs. 
Fairfax.  —  The  Friendly  Actress  determined  to  snatch  Stella 
from  her  Perilous  Situation.  — Sudden  Bursts  of  Hilarity  and 
Fits  of  Gloom.  —  Perdita  in  Grief. —  Stella's  Thrilling  Person- 
ation of  Juliet.  —  The  Audience  and  the  Ballet-Girl.  — Close 
of  the  Fourth  Act.  — A  Horrible  Accident.  —  Sudden  Death. 
— The  Stage-Manager's  Cold-blooded  Orders.  —  Stella's  En- 
tire Loss  of  Self-Control.  —  The  Manager's  Visit  to  Stella's 
Dressing-Room.  —  An  apparently  Inhuman  Request.  —  Juli- 
et's Tomb.  —  Terror  of  the  Young  Actress.  —  Mrs.  Fairfax 
concealed  in  the  Sepulchral  Vault  of  the  Capulets.  —  A  Novel 
Conclusion  of  the  Tragedy.  —  The  Suffering  Actress  before 
the  Foot-Lights.  —  State  in  which  she  is  taken  Home.  —  Mr. 
Percy H9 


$ 

CONTENTS.  XI 

CHAPTER    IX. 

The  Watcher.  —  Orphan  Mourners. — Perdita's  Consolations. — 
The  Ballet-Girl's  Sorrows  poured  into  the  Bosom  of  the  High- 
bred Maiden.  —  Rehearsal.  —  Mr.  Tennent's  Reprimand  of  the 
Novice.  —  Stella's  Strangeness  of  Manner.  —  Performance  of 
Hamlet.  —  Stella's  Unusual  Conduct  behind  the  Scenes.  —  Her 
Interview  with  Mr.  Martin  in  the  Green-Room.  —  A  Change 
in  Fisk.  —  Stella's  Personation  of  Ophelia  Painfully  Real.  — 
Ophelia's  Distribution  of  the  Flowers.  —  Her  Last  Scene. — 
Last  Impressive  Words. — Unexpected  Occurrences.  —  Edwin 
Percy  among  the  Audience.  —  His  Vain  Appeals  to  the  Door- 
Keeper.  —  Excited  Imagination  and  Over-tasked  Brain.  — 
Consultation  of  the  Manager  with  Mrs.  Fairfax  and  Mattie. 

—  Stella  removed  to  her  Home.  —  Maternal  Anguish.  —  De- 
votion of  Mrs.  Fairfax.  —  Her  Power  over  Stella.  —  Ravings. 

—  Arrival  of  Ernest. — The  Group  beside  the  Bed  of  the 
Young  Actress  one  Fortnight  after  the  Night  of  her  Debut.  — 
Restored  Consciousness.  —  Recognitions.  —  Farewells.  —  Con- 
clusion. —  An  Open  Book.  —  A  Voice  from  the  Invisible 
World, 174 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Property-Room  of  a  Theatre.  —  Its  Contents.  —  The  Property- 
Cradle  and  its  Occupant.  —  Robin  and  Susan.  —  A  Prompter's 
Trials.  —  History  of  the  "  General  Utility."  —  The  Prompt- 
er's Courtship. — "Asking  in  Church."  —  Wedding  of  the 
Hunchbacked  Prompter  and  the  "General  Utility."  —  The 
Bride  at  Rehearsal.  — Tina.  —  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth.  — 
Dot's  Baby.— Tina's  Debut.  — A  Touch  of  Nature.  —  The 
Infantile  "Hit."  —  Susan's  Prayer  in  the  old  Property- 
Room,    199 

CHAPTER  II. 

Time  and  his  Wonderful  Works. — The  Seasons  Dramatically 
Represented.  —  Time  and  his  Symbols.  —  Rough  Treatment 
of  the  Infant.  —  Maternal  Fears.  —  Melting  of  a  Stern  Heart. 

—  Tina  in  Fairy  Pageants.  — Evenings  at  Home.  —  Rehearsal 
of  Pizarro.  —  Tina  as  Cora's  Child.  —  Mr.  Upton.  —  Incident 
at  Rehearsal.  —  Comparative  Value  of  a  Child's  Arm  and  a 
Tragedian's  Point,  in  the  Estimation  of  Mr.  Upton.  —  Inter- 
ference of  Mr.  Higgins.  —  Subserviency  of  Mr.  Tuttle,  the 
Stage-Manager.  —  Virtue  of  a  Leathern  Girdle.  —  Tina  and  a 
Stray  Sunbeam.  —  The  Sphere  of  Childhood.  —  Its  Effect  in 
the  Theatre.  —  Tina  and  her  Father.  —  Gold  and  Silver  Rain. 

—  The  Temptation.  —  Performance  of  Pizarro, 220 


% 

XII  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    III. 

Precocious  Mental  Development.  —  Religious  Training. — The 
Young  Sunday-school  Teacher.  —  Miss  Amory's  Proposition. 
—  Building  the  Mansion  in  which  we  shall  dwell  in  the  Great 
Hereafter.  —  The  Child-Actress  at  Sunday-School.  —  Miss 
Amory's  Horror  of  a  Theatre.  —  Miss  Haughtonville's  Recog- 
nition of  Tina.  —  The  Discovery.  —  A  Scene  in  Sunday- 
School Robin's  Disclosure  to  his  Child.  —  Life's  First  Bitter 

Lesson.  —  Change  in  Tina.  —  Juvenile  Persecutions,  .   .   .   .    239 


CHAPTER    IV. 

Genius.  —  Sensations  of  the  Youthful  Actress.  —  Tina's  Person- 
ation of  the  Young  Duke  of  York.  —  Jealousy  of  Richard's 
Representative.  —  Tina's  First  Call  before  the  Foot-Lights.  — 
Sudden  Deafness  of  Mr.  Tuttle.  —  Mr.  Higgins'  Command  and 
Motives.  —  The  Hunchbacked  Prompter's  Delight.  — Duke  of 
York  metamorphosed.  —  Merriment  of  the  Audience.  —  Ru- 
mors heard  by  Mr.  Higgins.  —  Robin  bound  by  a  Contract.  — 
Discovery  that  he  has  been  Over-reached.  —  Tina  as  Prince 
Arthur.  —  Falling  from  the  Wall.  —  Mr.  Upton  softened.  — 
William  Tell.  —  Tina  as  Albert.  —  A  Tragedian's  Generosity. 
—  The  Hunchback's  Gratitude, 250 


CHAPTER    V. 

Tina's  Musical  Gift.  —  Mr.  Higgins'  Ideas  of  a  Theatrical  Es- 
tablishment. —  The  Tempest.  —  Spurious  Edition.  —  Tina 
"  cast  "  as  Ariel.  —  Discussion  between  the  Manager  and 
Stage-Manager.  —  Exultation  of  Susan  and  Robin  on  reading 
the  Cast.  —  Excitement  in  the  Theatre.  —  Miss  Mellen's  Sar- 
casm.—  Night  of  Performance.  —  The  Prompter's  Nook. — 
Ariel's  Appearance. — Tina's  Delineation.  —  Fifth  Act. — 
Ariel  Flying.  —  Entangled  Wires.  —  A  Mother's  Terror. — 
General  Confusion.  —  Frightful  Catastrophe.  —  Robin's  Pres- 
ence of  Mind.  —  The  Rescue.  —  Night-Watchers  in  the  Green 
Room. — Bearing  Tina  Home. — Incidents  by  the  Way. — 
The  Child's  Answer  to  her  Father, 272 


CHAPTER    VI. 

A  Mother's  Vigils.  —  Mr.  Higgins'  Rule  concerning  Invalids. 
—  Sympathy  of  the  Charitable.  — Visit  of  the  Sunday-school 
Teacher.  —  The  Mother's  Pang  of  Jealousy.  —  Reticence.  — 
Convalescence.  —  Susan's  Return  to  the  Theatre.  —  First 
Glance  at  the  Place  of  Peril.  — Tina  at  Kew  Gardens.  — The 
Child's  First  Recognition  of  Nature.  —  A  Relapse. — The 
Hunchback's  Fears  for  his  Wife.  —  Two  Minds  in  One.  —  The 
Seasons  of  Love,      289 


CONTENTS.  XIII 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Ill  Effects  of  Mental  Precocity.  —  Preparation  for  Christmas 
Pantomime. — Mr.  Higgins'  Visit  and  Proposition. — Tina 
Resuming  her  Profession.  —  "Boxing  Night."  —  The  Fairy 
Queen.  —  The  Pantomime.  —  The  Child's  Power  of  Will.  — 
Last  Night  of  the  Pantomime.  — The  Last  Painful  Effort.  — 
The  Old  Property-Room.  —  The  Adieus.  —  Mr.  Higgins  and 
the  Young  Actress.  —  Stage  Clothes  laid  aside  for  the  Last 
Time.  —  King  John.  —  The  Prompter's  Agony.  —  Blistered 
Pages  of  the  Prompt-Book.  —  Susan  forced  to  enact  Patience 
in  Henry  the  Eighth. — Toilet  made  by  the  Bedside  of  her 
Child.  —  The  Young  Sunday-school  Teacher  helping  to  robe 
the  Actress.  —  Hymn  Sung  by  Patience  to  Queen  Katharine, 
as  she  dies. — The  Mother's  Return  Home.  —  Singing  the 
same  Hymn  to  her  Child.  —  Robin's  Entrance. — The  Last 
Hymn.  —  Tina's  Release.  —  The  Mother's  Last  Offices.  —  Un- 
natural Strength  giving  way.  —  Robin's  Parting  Declaration. 
—  Reunion  of  Mother  and  Child.  —  Self-Renunciation.  — The 
Prompter's  Victory, 300 


THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

CHAPTER   I. 

A  Medical  Decision.  —  An  Aged  Pair.  —  Singular  Fact  in  Dra- 
matic History.  —  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ruthven.  —  The  Stage  Villain 
and  First  Old  Woman  of  the  Theatre.  —  Elma.  — Filial  Devo- 
tion. —  The  Unknown  Tragedian.  —  Correspondence.  —  Mys- 
terious Eccentricities.  —  Attachment.  —  The  Arrival.  —  Re- 
hearsal of  the  Valedictory.  —  Mortimer's  Powers  of  Captiva- 
tion.  —  Interview  with  Elma.  —  Painful  Position  of  the  Young 
Girl.  —  Farewell  Benefit  of  the  Aged  Actress  —  Peculiarities 
of  a  Dublin  Audience.  —  Damon  and  Pythias.  — Acting  of  the 
Great  Tragedian. — Elma's  Scenic  Talents. — Exotics  and 
Violets. — A  Suspicion.  —  The  Venerable  Actress  as  Mrs. 
Malaprop. — Incidents. — An  Expiring  Flame.  —  The  Un- 
spoken Adieu. — Touching  Close  of  a  Long  Career.  —  The 
Curtain  and  Pall, 319 

CHAPTER    II. 

Elma's  Attributes.  —  Divine  Providence.  —  A  Trustful  Spirit. 

—  The  Death-Bed  and  Betrothal.  —  The  Box  of  Mementos.  — 
A  Confidence  Postponed.  —  Mortimer's  Departure.  —  Withered 
Violets.  —  Change  in  the  Stage  Villain.  —  Expiring  Faculties. 

—  An  Irish  Absentee.  —  Lord  Oranmore  and  Leonard  Edmon- 
ton. —  Their  Visit  to  Elma.  —  Discussion  between  the  Noble- 
man and  Student  of  Divinity.  —  The  Portrait.  —  Elma's 
Titled  Suitor.  —  An  Offer.  —  Reply  of  the  Actress, 345 


XIV  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    III. 


Lord  Oranmore's  Startling  Communication  to  Leonard.  —  Rage 
of  the  Noble  Father  at  the  Proposed  Alliance  of  his  Son.  — 
The  Unwilling  Ambassador. — The  Chaplain's  Visit  to  the 
Actress.  —  A  Disappointment.  —  Elma's  Declaration.  —  Mr. 
Ruthven's  Chosen  Son.  —  Unwavering  Trust.  —  Mortimer's 
Return  to  Dublin.  —  Enthusiastic  Attachment  of  the  Com- 
pany. —  Singular  Traits.  —  Lavish  Charities.  —  Mr.  Ruth- 
ven's Disclosure  to  Mortimer.  —  A  Vision  of  Elma's  Future. 

—  Performance  of  Gisippus.  — Mental  Anguish  of  the  Trage- 
dian.—  The  Frantic  Improvisation. — Lord  Oranmore  in  the 
Boxes.  —  Mortimer's  Exit  from  the  Theatre.  —  Sudden  Dis- 
appearance,    360 

CHAPTER    IV. 

Displeasure  of  the  Audience.  —  Illness  of  Mr.  Ruthven.  —  Maid 
of  Mariendorpt.  —  The  Tragedian's  Return.  —  Singular  State. 

—  Elma's  Joy.  —  Mr.  Ruthven's  Delight.  —  General  Rejoic- 
ing.—  Mortimer's  Protestations.  —  Contract  between  Elma 
and  Mortimer. — The  Willing  Signature.  —  The  Father's 
Project.  —  Elma's  Unexpected  Consent.  —  Restoration  of  the 
Invalid.  —  Departure  of  the  Tragedian,  Elma,  and  her  Father, 
upon  a  Provincial  Tour, 375 

CHAPTER    V. 

Provincial  Engagements.  —  Mr.  Ruthven's  Dissertations  on 
Represented  Villany.  —  Unpaid  Performances  in  the  Boxes 
of  the  Theatre.  —  The  Surprise.  —  Lord  Oranmore  and  Mr. 
Edmonton.  —  Painful  Effects  of  her  Father's  Intelligence  upon 
Elma.  —  Mortimer's  Solicitation  for  her  Confidence.  —  Gloom 
of  the  Tragedian.  —  Elma's  Disturbed  Equanimity.  —  Leon- 
ard Edmonton's  Visit.  —  His  Character  and  Views.  —  A  Be- 
trayal.—  The  Forgotten  Contract.  — Happiness  Renounced,  .    385 

CHAPTER    VI. 

A  Lover's  Perplexity.  —  Edmonton  behind  the  Scenes.  —  El- 
ma's Confession. —  Sudden  Appearance  of  the  Tragedian. — 
Parting  of  the  Lovers.  —  Mortimer's  Inexplicable  Conduct. 

—  Conversation  with  Elma.  —  Reciprocal  Generosity.  —  The 
Father's  Misinterpretation, 394 

CHAPTER    VII. 

The  Tragedy  of  Bertram.  —  Rehearsal.  —  Elma's  Astrologer.  — 
An  Enigma.  —  Performance  of  Bertram.  —  A  Rash  Deed  and 
Terrible  Reality.  —  The  Contract  Annulled. — The  Tragedi- 
an's Closing  Scene. — Mystery  that  remains  Unsolved.  —  A 
Year  Later.  — Farewell  of  an  Actress.  — Picture  in  a  Parish 
Church, 400 


STELLA. 


We  know  what  we  are,  but  we  know  not  what  we  may  be. 

Ophelia. 


STELLA 


We  know  what  we  are,  but  we  know  not  what  we  may  be. 

Ophelia. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  Sheriff's  Sale.  — Faithful  Mattie.  — Stella.— The  Sudden 
Project.  —  Ernest  Rosenvelt,  the  Tragedian.  —  A  Mourner 
without  Hope.  —  Stella's  Startling  Disclosure  to  Mrs.  Rosen- 
velt.  —  Apathy  of  the  Mother,  and  Fixed  Resolution  of  the 
Daughter.  —  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oakland.  —  Stella's  Visit  to  their 
Cottage Mr.  Oakland's  Repugnance  to  the  Theatrical  Pro- 
fession. —  Futile  Endeavors  to  discourage  his  Impetuous  Pupil. 
—  A  Reluctant  Consent.  —  The  Study  of  Juliet.  —  The  First 
Lesson.  —  Effects  upon  Stella's  Highly -wrought  Imagination.  — 
The  Widowed  Mother's  Alarm.  —  Losing  one's  Identity.  — 
The  Expected  Letter.  —  Disappointment.  —  Enthusiasm  that 
Runs  Riot.  —  Genius  and  Mediocrity. 

"  Must  you  hang  that  red  rag  from  the  drawing- 
room  window  ?     Could  n't  you  choose  any  other  ?  " 

Mattie  ventured  to  touch  the  elbow  of  the  man 
whom  she  thus  querulously  addressed.  He  was  in 
the  act  of  securing  the  pole  that  suspended  a  scarlet 
flag  in  front  of  a  stately  mansion  in  one  of  the  most 
fashionable  localities  in  Boston. 

"  It 's  a  sheriff's  sale  !  "  was  the  brusque  reply. 


10  ;    ;  ,         STELLA. 

"  All  the  world  knows  that,  without  your  red- 
dragon  token  !  "  sighed  Mattie.  She  looked  discon- 
solately around  the  spacious  apartment,  in  which  the 
costly  appliances  of  wealth  were  ranged,  not  in  their 
customary  order,  but  as  best  fitted  their  display  for 
an  auction. 

Thirty  years  before  the  period  alluded  to,  Mr. 
Kosenvelt,  an  American  merchant,  visited  London 
with  his  youthful  wife.  Mattie  chanced  to  be  em- 
ployed by  the  lady  as  assistant  dress-maker.  The 
English  girl  became  a  widow  one  year  after  her  mar- 
riage, and  a  few  months  before  the  book  of  her  teens 
was  closed.  She  had  never  contemplated  entering 
service,  but  soon  conceived  a  warm  attachment  for 
Mrs.  Kosenvelt,  and  was  induced  to  accept  the  situ- 
ation of  lady's  maid.  A  year  afterwards,  the  devoted 
attendant  accompanied  her  master  and  mistress 
to  America.  Very  great  was  her  astonishment  when 
she  was  first  thrown  in  contact  with  the  Boston 
"  helps,"  who  are  so  horrified  at  the  word  ' '  servant " 
that  they  would  gladly  have  the  expression  M  thy 
man-servant  and  thy  maid-servant  v  erased  from  the 
decalogue.  Mattie  was  puzzled  to  comprehend  how 
honest  servitude  could  be  considered  a  degradation. 

"  Must  not  some  rule,  and  some  serve  ?  "  she  would 
say.  "It  is  my  lot  to  serve,  and  I  take  pride  in 
serving  faithfully.  If  I  begin  to  think  myself  too 
good  to  serve  my  mistress,  I  shall  soon  think  myself 
too  good  to  serve  my  God." 

The  policy  of  leaving  a  tried  situation  for  one 
more  profitable  —  an  idea  of  peculiarly  American 
growth  —  never  found  its  way  into  her  simple,  un- 
calculating  mind.     She  deemed  herself  grafted  upon 


STELLA .  11 

the  family  which  she  first  entered  ;  their  interests 
were  hers,  their  sorrows  hers,  their  welfare  hers  ; 
she  was  their  helpful  friend  as  well  as  their  domestic. 
The  much-enduring  Mattie  never  talked  of  too  much 
trouble,  or  too  much  fatigue  ;  she  always  under- 
took more  than  any  one  mortal  could  possibly 
accomplish ;  and,  though  her  inclination  constantly 
outstripped  her  strength,  she  was  never  wholly 
baffled.  Her  hands  were  ever  tendered  to  lift  other 
people's  burdens  ;  her  sympathies  ever  ready 

" to  fly  east  or  west,  whichever 

Way  besought  them." 

Her  existence  was  completely  merged  in  that  of 
others. 

A  crowd  of  curious  idlers,  or  intended  purchasers, 
now  made  their  way  into  the  apartment.  Mattie 
noticed  the  rude  manner  with  which  they  examined 
the  objects  of  vertu  which  had  been  so  highly  valued 
by  their  owners  —  the  gifts,  perchance,  of'  dear 
friends,  the  prized  mementos  of  happy  hours.  She 
brushed  away  a  troublesome  tear,  and  hurried  up 
the  stairs,  looking  first  into  this  room,  then  into  that, 
evidently  in  search  of  some  one.  At  last  she  opened 
the  door  of  a  large  but  totally  dismantled  chamber  ; 
it  was  once  the  favorite  apartment  of  the  master 
of  the  house,  the  room  from  which  his  corpse  had 
been  borne  out. 

There  a  young  girl  was  rapidly  walking  up  and 
down,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  her  small 
hands  clasped  tightly  over  her  head,  lost  in  deep 
thought. 

To  paint  an  odor  or  an  atmosphere,  the  melting 


12  STELLA  . 

hues  of  a  rainbow,  the  soft  effulgence  of  a  moonlight 
lamp,  would  be  a  more  promising  attempt  than  to 
portray  by  language  the  intangible  attribute  which 
compelled  those  who  gazed  upon  her  to  pronounce 
Stella  beautiful.  The  charm  dwelt  not  in  any  one 
feature,  for  none  was  faultless.  The  perfect  har- 
mony that  blended  the  whole  countenance,  the  rapid 
transitions  of  expression,  the  flashing  soul  shiniDg 
through  its  transparent  covering  as  through  a  crys- 
tal casement  —  these  constituted  the  elements  of  her 
loveliness. 

Her  eyes  were  neither  very  large  nor  very  small. 
At  one  time  they  appeared  to  be  brilliantly  black ; 
at  another,  they  seemed  a  lustrous  blue.  They  were, 
in  reality,  of  a  grayish  hue,  mingled  with  light  hazel, 
which  possesses  the  peculiarity  of  changing  its  color 
with  varying  emotions. 

Her  abundant  hair  exhibited  that  rare  tint  which 
the  French  call  chatain  dore  —  chestnut,  streaked 
with  gold.  It  partook  of  the  chameleon  property  of 
her  eyes  :  when  the  air  was  clear,  and  radiant  with 
sunshine,  her  tresses  were  almost  golden  ;  in  a  humid 
atmosphere,  the  shining  yellow  was  extinguished, 
and  replaced  by  a  soft  brown. 

Her  flexible  lips  disclosed  immaculate  teeth,  and, 
in  repose,  the  mouth  seemed  to  curve  itself  spon- 
taneously into  a  smile.  Her  figure  was  slightly 
above  the  medium  height,  with  the  slender,  spanable 
waist,  undeveloped  proportions,  and  not  very  erect 
bearing,  which  characterize  the  American  maiden  at 
eighteen  ;  the  precise  opposite  of  the  swelling  form, 
the  rounded  arms,  dimpled  shoulders,  and  firm  car- 


STELLA.  13 

riage,  that  distinguish  an  English  girl  at  the  same 
age. 

n  There  *&  a  crowd  pouring  in  below,  Miss  Stella, 
dear.  Had  we  not  better  come  away  home  ?  "  asked 
Mattie,  tenderly. 

"Home!- 0,  Mattie!" 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  mean  to  vex  you.  I  know  well 
enough  you  never  knew  any  home  but  this,  and  can't 
get  accustomed  to  think  of  the  shabbyish  rooms  at 
the  boarding-place  as  home.  But  your  mother's 
there,  and  she  's  wanting  us,  perhaps." 

"Yes  —  I'll  go,  Mattie.  My  mother  may  want 
us.  But  first  let  me  tell  you  of  what  I  am  thinking. 
Only  don't  start,  and  remonstrate,  and  be  horrified 
with  me, —  I  could  n't  bear  that  now.  I  have  just 
been  told  by  our  lawyer  that  the  sale  of  this  house 
and  our  furniture  —  all  we  have  —  will  not  more 
than  meet  my  father's  liabilities.  My  dear  mother 
and  I  are  left  without  provision,  solely  dependent  on 
my  brother.  You  know  how  noble  Ernest  is  ;  how 
willingly  he  would  share  his  last  farthing  with  us  ; 
but  his  salary  at  the  theatre  as  yet  is  small  —  not 
sufficient  to  furnish  him  with  the  expensive  wardrobe 
that  is  requisite  in  his  profession." 

M  True  enough,  dear.  Yet  he  wrote  that  he  would 
manage  to  spare  sufficient  to  take  care  of  his  mother 
and  of  you  ;  and  are  we  not  all  sure  that  he  will  do 
it  gladly  ?  " 

"  So  he  would.  But  he  cannot  possibly  secure  to 
my  mother  the  comforts,  the  luxuries,  to  which  she 
has  been  accustomed,  which  her  feeble  health  de- 
mands. And  we  shall  be  as  a  huge  millstone  around 
fhe  neck  of  Ernest;  we  shall  prevent  his  climbing 
2 


14  STELLA. 

the  ladder  of  fame  ;  we  shall  keep  him  always  on 
the  lowest  round.  No  !  I  tell  you  it  must  not  be  !  — 
it  shall  not  be  !  I  am  as  fitted  to  work  as  he.  Why 
should  not  I  exert  myself  ?     Why  should  I 

" dully  sluggardized  at  home, 

Wear  out  my  youth  with  shapeless  idleness  "  ? 

"  You,  child  !  —  you  !  What  could  you  do  ?  " 
"  Not  teach,  perhaps  ;  — I  have  thought  of  that  — 
the  compensation  is  too  pitiful ;  not  give  music- 
lessons,  though  that  would  be  more  profitable  ;  not 
become  an  artist  —  I  have  not  talent  for  that ;  those 
walks  are  all  closed  to  me  ;  —  but  there  is  one  open 
—  the  stage. 

11  0,  Miss  Stella !  I  shall  think  you  demented  !  " 
"  So  people  said  of  my  brother,  when  my  father 
took  him  into  his  counting-house,  and  Ernest  grew 
weary  and  listless,  and  one  day  declared  that  he 
had  no  turn  for  commerce  ;  that  he  preferred  a  pro- 
fession ;  that  there  was  one  profession  alone  for 
which  he  had  decided  abilities  —  that  of  an  actor. 
My  father  was  angry  enough  at  first,  and  my  mother 
wept  and  talked  of  disgrace.  But  Ernest  was  so 
fixed  in  his  resolution,  he  proved  himself  so  upright, 
so  persevering,  that  he  won  them  over.  Don't  you 
remember,  Mattie,  when  he  engaged  as  '  second 
walking  gentleman '  in  a  country  theatre  at  a  misera- 
ble salary,  how  we  all  remonstrated  ?  But  he  studied 
incessantly ;  he  rose  rapidly  ;  he  soon  received  an 
offer  to  appear  here  at  the  Tremont.  My  father  saw 
him  perform,  pronounced  that  he  had  genius  for  his 
vocation,  and,  after  that,  was  content.  It  was  just 
one  year  before  my  dear  father  died,  and  now  Ernest 


STELLA .  15 

is  engaged  as  leading  man  in  one  of  the  largest  the- 
atres in  New  York.  To  be  sure,  he  shares  the  busi- 
ness with  an  older  actor,  which  is  unfortunate.  But 
who  doubts  that  he  will  become  one  of  the  most 
renowned  tragedians  of  the  day  ?     Not  I !  " 

u  The  Lord  love  him  !  I  always  said  he  was  cut 
out  for  the  pattern  of  a  great  man,  and  it 's  coming 
true." 

"  Why  didn't  you  make  a  prophecy  about  me  at 
the  same  time,  Mattie  ?  for  there  are  laurels  spring- 
ing somewhere  about  this  earth  which  I  hope  to 
wear.  I  am  tired  of  this  aimless  existence.  You 
remember  Mr.  Oakland,  with  whom  my  brother  read, 
and  who  was  also  my  teacher  of  elocution  ?  I  once 
heard  him  say  that  my  powers  of  personation  were 
not  inferior  to  those  of  Ernest.  Hundreds  of  times 
that  remark  has  come  back  to  me,  for  Mr.  Oakland  is 
no  idle  flatterer.  My  brother  must  procure  me  an 
engagement  in  the  theatre  where  he  acts  ;  we  shall 
perform  together ;  —  he  will  instruct  me  and  protect 
me  ;  —  I  will  use  my  talents  as  well  as  he  !  " 

"It  's  not  for  me  to  presume  upon  advising  ;  and 
I  know  nothing  of  theatres  except  what  I  've  heard 
from  Mr.  Ernest.  But  this  I  know, —  I'm  always 
happiest  with  my  hands  full,  and  so,  perhaps,  will 
you  be.  But  how  will  you  get  your  mother's  con- 
sent ? " 

"  She  has  never  seemed  to  care  for  anything  since 
my  father's  death.  She  will  hardly  rouse  herself  to 
refuse, —  I  think  I  can  persuade  her.  Let  us  go  —  M 
("home,"  she  was  about  to  say,  but  she  checked 
herself)  —  "back  to  the  boarding-house." 

Stella  found  her  mother  sitting,  in  the  attitude  of 


16  STELLA. 

listless  despair,  which  had  become  habitual  to  her 
since  the  death  of  her  husband.  She  was  clad  in 
the  deepest  mourning-,  her  hair  smoothed  from  her 
brow,  and  covered  with  a  close  widow's  cap,  which, 
to  her  morbid  mind,  seemed  one  of  grief's  needful 
expressions.  Her  wan  face,  grown  prematurely  old, 
rested  on  her  thin  hand  ;  her  whole  mien  betokened 
the  most  perfect  apathy.  She  could  not  occupy  her- 
self; she  could  not  converse,  or  even  think;  she 
wholly  surrendered  her  spirit  to  the  dominion  of  a 
sorrow  that  paralyzed  all  her  faculties.  Grief  filled 
every  chamber  of  her  heart,  and  left  no  room  for 
comfort  to  enter  in.  Yet  she  was  what  is  styled  a 
"church-going  woman,"  and  scrupulously  strict  in 
all  pious  observances.  No  hypocrite,  though  a  mis- 
construer  of  the  great  ends  of  religion — it  never 
occurred  to  her  that  there  is  impiety  in  yielding 
to  hopeless  despondency ;  that  there  is  sin  in  every- 
thing that  obstructs,  or  even  partially  curtails,  our 
usefulness ;  that  the  eyes  of  living  Faith  are  never 
rivetted  downwards  on  the  grave,  but  upraised  to 
the  heaven  beyond. 

Mr.  Rosenvelt  died  suddenly.  His  afiairs  were 
left  to  the  settlement  of  lawyers.  In  a  few  months 
it  was  announced  to  the  helpless  widow  that  she  was 
penniless,  —  that  she  must  leave  her  luxurious  home, 
forego  her  customary  habits,  and  look  to  her  son  for 
future  support.  The  second  shock  had  been  so  much 
transcended  by  the  first,  that  this  new  blow  was 
scarcely  felt.  She  removed  to  a  comfortless  board- 
ing-house without  betraying  any  unusual  emotion. 
She  wept  much,  but  silently.  She  seemed  to  think 
that  "  taking  up  a  place  in  the  world  w  was  all  that 


STELLA.  It 

now  remained  for  her  in  life ;  and  day  by  day  her 
mental  torpor  increased. 

Mrs.  Rosenvelt  scarcely  looked  up  as  her  daugh- 
ter entered  the  room.  Stella  knelt  down  by  her 
mother's  side,  and  caressingly  took  the  hand  that 
lay  in  her  lap. 

"Mother,  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  if  you  have 
strength  to  hear  me.     May  I  ?  " 

"  Yes/'  was  the  languidly-uttered  reply. 

"But  I  shall  perhaps  startle  you  by  a  project  that 
I  have  at  heart.  I  want  you  to  be  prepared,  dearest 
mother." 

There  was  no  answer,  but  a  heart-sore  sigh,  which 
seemed  to  say  that  nothing  in  life  could  startle  or 
grieve  her  more. 

"  May  I  go  on,  mother,  dear  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Then  Stella  courageously  repeated  the  hopes  and 
schemes  that  she  had  confided  to  Mattie,  warming 
with  her  subject,  as  though  she  thought  to  inspire 
her  mother  with  her  own  ardor.  Her  cheeks  glowed 
and  her  eyes  flashed,  as  she  paused,  panting  for  a 
reply. 

Mrs.  Rosenvelt  shook  her  head.  "It  is  one  of 
your  wild  dreams,  child ;  it  will  never  be, —  you  can- 
not accomplish  it." 

"  Mother,  I  can,  and  will,  with  Heaven's  help  and 
your  permission  !     Have  I  that  ?  " 

It  cost  Mrs.  Rosenvelt  a  great  effort  to  rouse  her- 
self sufficiently  to  utter  a  few  commonplace  objec- 
tions, such  as  her  daughter  easily  combated.  The 
will  of  the  former,  opposed  to  that  of  the  latter, 
bowed  as  a  reed  before  a  strong  blast  —  was  borne 


18  STELLA. 

onward  as  a  straw  on  a  rushing  tide.  But  the  facile 
mother  could  not  be  lured  into  an  argument. 

"At  least,  may  I  write  to  my  brother,  and  see 
what  he  will  say  and  do  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Thank  you,  mother ;  now  all  will  be  well.  I  am 
sure  of  it !     If  I  could  only  see  you  smile !  " 

u  Stella !  Stella !  "  and  Mrs  Kosenvelt  burst  into 
an  agony  of  tears.  The  possibility  of  smiling  seemed 
to  her  almost  sacrilege. 

Stella's  caresses  only  increased  the  violence  of  her 
mother's  grief,  and  the  young  girl  silently  waited  for 
the  paroxysm  to  subside.  She  could  not  weep  her- 
self; she  had  too  much  to  plan,  too  much  to  accom- 
plish. Strenuous  action  and  the  luxury  of  tears 
are  incompatible. 

When  at  last  the  sobs  died  away,  Stella  arose  and 
disappeared  in  the  closet-like  apartment  which  served 
as  her  chamber.  The  letter  to  her  brother  was  writ- 
ten at  once,  and  Mattie  despatched  with  it  to  the 
post. 

This  much  effected,  Stella  grew  restless  to  achieve 
something  more.  She  took  it  for  granted  that  her 
brother's  answer  must  be  favorable.  Her  next  step 
was  to  visit  her  former  tutor  and  ever-dear  friend, 
Mr.  Oakland.  A  few  minutes'  walk  brought  her  to 
the  garden  gate  of  his  bower-like  cottage.  Without, 
as  within,  this  unpretending  abode,  a  presence  of 
tasteful  simplicity,  an  evident  love  and  cultivation 
of  the  beautiful,  proclaimed  the  refined  tone  of  its 
inmates. 

Mr.  Oakland  was  by  birth  an  Englishman  of  ster- 
ling family.     In  his  first  manhood,  Prosperity,  with 


STELLA.  19 

lavish  hands,  scattered  her  good  gifts  about  his  path. 
He  might  have  aptly  styled  himself  '•  the  very  button 
on  Fortune's  cap/7  Scarcely  had  she  launched  him 
on  a  brilliant-seeming  commercial  career,  than  her 
smiles  were  capriciously  withdrawn.  Then  came 
the  struggles  so  bitter  to  a  proud  and  sensitive  na- 
ture. We  pass  over  his  youthful  contest  with  life. 
At  the  period  of  which  we  write,  his  day  of  wrestling 
with  adversity  had  nearly  closed.  For  some  years 
he  had  been  recognized  as  an  eminent  master  of 
elocution,  and  his  talents  found  ample  exercise  in 
colleges,  institutes,  literary  coteries,  and  the  public 
lecture-room.  The  world  made  him  tardy  compensa- 
tion for  early  buffets. 

In  intellect,  as  in  appearance,  he  preserved  the 
freshness  and  vigor  which  belong  to  manhood's 
prime.  There  was  a  singular  mingling  of  reserve 
and  frankness  in  his  manners.  Too  courteous  to 
be  positively  blunt,  he  notwithstanding  often  spoke 
truths  to  his  best  friends  that  lacked  gentleness. 
Beneath  the  dignified  reticence,  which  was  some- 
times mistaken  for  coldness  or  pride,  there  flowed  a 
current  of  warm  geniality.  The  thin  icy  barrier  was 
but  a  mere  coating  on  the  external  surface,  which 
quickly  melted  before  the  sunshine  of  appreciation. 

To  Mr.  Oakland's  instruction  and  advice  Ernest 
Eosenvelt  had  been  greatly  indebted  for  his  first  suc- 
cess upon  the  stage.  Out  of  this  fact  sprang  Stella's 
determination  to  apply  to  her  former  tutor.  Mr. 
Oakland,  while  he  enjoyed  to  the  highest  degree  the 
displays  of  dramatic  genius, —  while  the  perform- 
ances of  Siddons  and  O'Neill,  Kemble  and  Cook,  were 
engraven  as  on  tablets  of  steel,  and  treasured  in  his 


20  STELLA. 

memory, —  yet  entertained  a  deep-rooted  repugnance 
for  the  theatrical  profession  itself.  Stella  was  aware 
of  this  antipathy,  and  felt  sure  that  he  would  attempt 
to  dissuade  her  from  her  purpose  ;  but  the  wayward 
girl  was  too  strongly  armed  in  her  self-will  to  believe 
that  she  could  be  conquered. 

When  she  reached  his  residence  Mr.  Oakland  was 
engaged  ;  he  might  not  be  at  leisure  for  some  time. 
Stella  inquired  for  Mrs.  Oakland,  and  was  soon  ad- 
mitted to  her  presence.  Subdued  in  manners,  mild 
and  ladylike  in  person,  Mrs.  Oakland  exemplified 
the  beauty  of  that  most  lovable  and  womanly  trait, 
the  power  of  appreciating  others  —  of  drawing  forth 
their  finest  qualities,  without  the  desire  to  shine 
herself.  She  never  originated,  but  always  reflected 
back  brilliancy.  Her  quick  apprehension  and  ready 
sympathy  were  even  more  conducive  to  delightful 
social  intercourse  than  the  display  of  sparkling  in- 
tellectual gifts.  She  possessed  the  gracious  faculty 
of  rendering  her  guests  pleased  with  themselves ; 
consequently  they  were  always  charmed  with  her. 

Stella  made  a  failing  attempt  to  talk  on  indifferent 
subjects  ;  then  broke  off  abruptly,  and  dashed  at 
once  into  a  full  relation  of  her  scheme.  She  had 
risen  from  her  seat,  and  was  discoursing  so  enthusi- 
astically upon  her  future  career  that  she  did  not  hear 
the  door  open.  The  expression  of  her  auditor's  coun- 
tenance caused  her  to  turn.  Mr.  Oakland  stood  be- 
hind her,  intently  listening. 

f*  Then  you  know  what  I  am  talking  about  ?  You 
have  heard  my  project  ?  "  was  her  eager  greeting. 

"  Yes  ;  and  what  am  I  to  think  of  you  ?  " 

"  Think  ?    Think  that  I  am,  in  the  words  of  Portia, 


STELLA.  21 

*  An  unlessoned  girl,  unschooled,  unpractised  ! 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn  ;  happier  than  this, 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn ; 
Happiest  of  all  is,  that  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  you  to  be  instructed ! ' 

Why  do  you  smile  ?  " 

"I  was  reflecting  that,  if  you  could  carry  that 
earnestness  and  naturalness  of  manner  to  the  stage, 
instruction  would  almost  be  an  act  of  supereroga- 
tion. But  you  do  not  know  the  difficulty  of  repre- 
senting in  public  that  which  is  easy  to  feel,  or  to 
simulate,  in  private.     A  thousand  obstacles  —  " 

Stella  interrupted  him  impatiently :  "Do  not  talk 
to  me  of  difficulties  and  obstacles  !  Every  pursuit 
in  life  has  its  difficulties  and  obstacles.  Leave  me  to 
wage  war  with  those !  Will  you  help  me  ?  Will 
you  fit  me  for  what  I  am  about  to  undertake  ?  Do 
not  refuse  !  I  should  only  make  the  attempt  without 
you,  and  then  I  might  fail !  " 

"  If  you  really  persist  in  venturing,  let  me  caution 
you  —  " 

"  Now,  do  not  damp  my  ardor  with  wet-blanket 
cautions !  I  dare  say  I  shall  encounter  remon- 
strances enough  ;  so  I  make  my  declaration  of  inde- 
pendence at  once,  and  give  you  fair  warning  that  I 
shall  listen  to  no  one,  since  my  mother  has  yielded 
her  opposition." 

Mr.  Oakland  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  check  the 
headstrong  girl.  If  she  had  strength  and  ability 
equal  to  her  perseverance,  she  possessed  the  chief 
elements  of  success. 


22  STELLA. 

"What  shall  I  study  first?  In  what  character 
shall  I  make  my  debut  ?  " 

"  You  must  inform  me  first  in  what  theatre  you 
expect  to  appear,  and  with  what  privileges. V 

"  0  !  of  course  in  New  York,  with  my  brother,  and 
with  all  sorts  of  privileges,  — no  fear  about  that !  " 

"  But  there  is  fear.  It  may  not  be  so  easy  to  pro- 
cure an  engagement.  You  do  not  know  the  difficul- 
ties—" 

"There!  You  will  fill  my  ears  with  difficulties 
again  !  Do  make  him  stop,  Mrs.  Oakland  ;  and  ask 
him  to  advise  me  what  I  shall  study." 

"  Well,  then,  young  Impetuosity,  I  should  advise 
Shakspeare's  heroines.  At  least,  let  your  school  be 
high.  You  can  study  Imogen,  and  Desdemona,  and 
Ophelia,  and  Beatrice,  and  Rosalind,  and  Portia,  and 
Viola,  and  Juliet,  and  Cordelia,  at  once.  Will  that 
satisfy  you  ?  " 

"  It  delights  me  ;  I  shall  begin  immediately  !  " 

u  What !  to  study  them  all  together?  What  a  the- 
atrical prodigy  you  intend  to  be  !  And  with  a  mem- 
ory as  capacious  as  Garagantua's  mouth  !  " 

"  Now,  don't  laugh  at  me  !  I  mean  I  '11  begin  with 
one,  —  Juliet,  I  think.  I  should  delight  to  person- 
ate Juliet.  We  will  select  that  for  my  debut,  and 
Ernest  will  enact  Romeo.  There  !  that 's  settled. 
Now  for  the  rest :  when  may  I  begin  to  read  with 
you?" 

"Had  you  not  better  wait  to  hear  what  your 
brother  advises  ?  " 

"No,  no!  Wait!  —  that 's  impossible  !  His  an- 
swer will  make  no  difference.  Is  he  not  an  actor 
himself?    Does  he  not  openly  profess  to  honor  the 


STELLA.  23 

stage?  How  can  he  object  to  my  becoming  an 
actress  ?  Tell  me  when  I  may  commence !  Why 
not  now  —  this  very  moment  ?  Here  is  a  Shakspeare 
temptingly  ready !  "  And  she  commenced  turning 
over  the  leaves  in  search  of  Eomeo  and  Juliet. 

Mr.  Oakland  laughed  as  he  took  the  volume  from 
her  hand. 

"  Not  so  fast,  my  dear  little  histrionic  candidate  ! 
You  quite  take  away  my  breath  with  your  impetuous 
spirit.  We  can't  build  up  this  theatrical  Rome  of 
yours  in  a  day.  I  expect  a  young  clerical  pupil  in 
a  few  moments.  Shakspeare  must  give  way  to  the 
Episcopal  service,  which  I  am  to  read  with  him  " 

"  Then,  when  shall  I  commence  ?  Shall  it  be  to- 
morrow ? " 

"  Yes  ;  to-morrow,  at  this  hour." 

"  Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  my  kind  friend ! 
You  may  be  sure  I  shall  be  punctual.  Day  after  to- 
morrow I  will  bring  you  my  brother's  letter,  and  we 
shall  know  everything.  I  may  truly  say,  with  Juliet, 
''tis  twenty  years  till  then/  And  so  good-by, — 
good-by,  Mrs.  Oakland !  '  Parting  is  such  sweet 
sorrow/  etc.  etc." 

Stella  returned  home,  elated  by  her  interview. 
Shakspeare's  Juliet  engrossed  her  entire  thoughts 
for  the  remainder  of  that  day.  She  dwelt  in  wonder 
over  the  affluent  imagery,  the  luxuriance  of  meta- 
phor, with  which  Juliet's  language  teems.  But  it 
was  not  merely  the  text  of  the  peerless  bard  that 
she  studied.  Her  mind  grappled  with  his  concep- 
tion of  the  enamored  maiden,  whose  whole  being  is 
made  captive  by  a  passion  as  sudden  and  pure  as  it 
must  have  proved  constant.     Stella  pondered  upon 


24  STELLA. 

the  depth  and  rich  variety  of  Juliet's  attributes  ;  the 
girlish  simplicity,  the  fiery  impulsiveness,  the  hero- 
ism born  of  suffering,  the  rapid  transition,  through 
"the  inly  touch  of  love,"  from  unexpanded  girlhood 
to  perfect  womanhood.  All  these  revelations  of 
character  she  grasped  intuitively ;  but  could  she 
portray  them?  Could  she  compel  an  audience  to 
exclaim,  "  This  is  no  counterfeit  presentment,  but  a 
living  portrait  of  Shakspeare's  unrivalled  creation  "  ? 

She  would  gladly  have  passed  the  night  in  her 
fascinating  occupation,  but  this  attempt  the  prudent 
Mattie  successfully  opposed.  Sleep  touched  the 
young  girl's  eyelids  but  lightly,  and  in  brief  and 
broken  visits. 

When  she  appeared  at  breakfast,  her  manner  was 
so  abstracted  that  even  her  unobservant  mother's 
attention  was  aroused.  Stella  hardly  tasted  the  food 
before  her ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  as  though  upon  some 
far-off  object,  and  now  and  then  she  muttered  a  few 
indistinct  words,  or  involuntarily  uttered  them  aloud. 

M  My  dear  Stella,  I  am  afraid  you  are  ill !  " 

"  0  no,  mother !  I  am  only  studying  a  part,  and 
it  interests  me  so  much,  I  cannot  think  of  anything 
else." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  returned  her  mother,  languidly. 

The  appointed  hour  was  just  striking,  when  Stella 
passed  through  the  garden  entrance  to  Mr.  Oakland's 
residence.  The  greeting  of  her  tutor  was  brief  and 
grave.  Reflection  had  only  added  to  the  unwilling- 
ness with  which  he  yielded  to  her  request.  But  her 
absorbed  attention  as  she  listened  to  his  analysis  of 
Juliet's  complex  traits,  her  rapid  seizure  of  his  ideas 
when  he  pointed  out  a  line  of  demarcation  between 


STELLA.  25 

the  graceful  embodiment  that  would  be  charming  in 
a  drawing-room  and  the  strongly-marked  lights  and 
shadows  requisite  in  the  wide  arena  of  a  theatre, 
the  Protean  changes  of  her  speaking  countenance, 
her  concentration  of  mind,  and  total  self-forgetful- 
ness,  perforce  dispelled  his  reluctance. 

When  she  began  to  read,  her  crude  but  striking 
conception  startled  him  into  a  sensation  very  closely 
akin  to  enthusiasm. 

"  Her  talent  vindicates  her  determination ! "  he 
ejaculated  mentally.  "  This  diamond  needs  but 
polish  to  proclaim  its  true  water  !  M 

But  no  such  language  passed  his  lips.  He  was 
no  spendthrift  of  his  praises. 

Stella  was  still  reading  when  Mrs.  Oakland  gently 
opened  the  door. 

"  Surely,  the  hour  is  not  out  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
young  girl. 

"  Yes,  and  another  hour  has  gone  with  it,  and  a 
third  is  beginning  to  follow  them."  Mrs.  Oakland 
affectionately  saluted  her,  and  then  added,  "  I  knew 
how  completely  absorbed  you  must  be  ;  and  I  would 
not  have  interrupted  you,  but  a  class  has  been  wait- 
ing for  some  time." 

"Two  hours  gone!  Is  it  possible?"  said  Mr. 
Oakland,  rising.  "  I  must  bid  you  a  hasty  good- 
morning." 

"  May  I  come  to-morrow,  at  the  same  hour  ?  " 

M  I  suppose  I  shall  be  compelled  to  say  yes." 

"  I  should  not  listen  to  *  no/  "  replied  Stella,  play- 
fully. "  To-morrow  I  will  bring  my  brother's  letter." 

She  returned  home,  and  instantly  resumed  her 
studies.     She  had  now  reached  the  "potion  scene." 


26  STELLA. 

The  thronging  horrors  of  Juliet's  tomb  —  her  awak- 
ening among  the  dead,  the  "  bloody  Tybalt  festering 
in  his  shroud,"  the  gliding  spirits,  Juliet's  frenzy  of 
terror,  her  mad  playing  with  her  ancestors'  bones 
—  were  so  vividly  conjured  up  by  Stella's  excited 
imagination,  that  she  suddenly  leaped  from  her  seat, 
with  arm  uplifted,  exclaiming,  wildly, 

"  With  some  great  kinsman's  bone,  as  with  a  club, 
Dash  out  my  desperate  brains!  " 

Her  mother  uttered  a  feeble  shriek,  and  drew  back 
affrighted.  Mattie's  quick  ears  caught  the  sound, 
and  she  ran  into  the  room. 

Stella  looked  confusedly  about  her.  She  saw  her 
mother's  pale  consternation  and  Mattie's  look  of 
alarm,  and  tried  to  collect  her  scattered  thoughts. 
She  swept  back  the  long  tresses,  that  had  broken 
their  bands  and  fell  in  dishevelled  clusters  around 
her  face,  wiped  the  cold  dew  from  her  forehead,  and 
tried  to  force  a  smile,  as  she  said,  "  It 's  nothing, 
mother  ;  I  was  only  studying  a  part." 

"  Studying  a  part,  my  dear,  with  that  fearful  out- 
cry ?  You  terrify  me  !  What  is  coming  over  you, 
Stella  ?  Your  eyes  look  as  wild  as  though  you  were 
losing  your  senses  !  " 

"No,  no,  mother;  only  losing  my  identity  in 
Juliet's.    Pray,  don't  be  discomposed  ;  it 's  nothing." 

She  laid  aside  her  book,  and  seated  herself  by  her 
mother's  side.  It  was  some  time  since  Mrs.  Kosen- 
velt  had  been  so  completely  roused.  She  even  asked 
her  daughter  a  few  questions  concerning  the  charac- 
ter she  was  studying.  Mrs.  Rosenvelt  had  seen 
Juliet  enacted  years  ago.     She  spoke  of  her  impres- 


STELLA.  2*1 

sions,  but  they  brought  back  some  painful  memory. 
Her  eyes  gradually  filled,  and  she  relapsed  into 
silence. 

Stella  looked  wistfully  at  her  book,  but  feared  to 
disturb  her  mother  if  she  stole  back  to  the  sofa 
where  it  was  lying. 

The  usual  hour  for  retiring  was  near.  She  re- 
joiced when  she  found  herself  alone  in  her  little 
chamber  —  alone  with  the  shadowy  Juliet,  who 
seemed  to  exist  within  her  and  beside  her.  They 
were  not  parted  in  dreams.  Stella  awoke  from  her 
fitful  slumbers,  vehemently  crying  out 

"Dash  out  my  desperate  brains  !  '* 

Those  words  haunted  her.  Numberless  times  during 
the  night  they  broke  involuntarily  from  her  lips. 
And  when  the  sun 

"  Peered  forth  the  golden  window  of  the  east," 

she  found  herself  repeating  them  still 

While  she  was  making  her  toilet,  she  caught  sight 
of  her  own  countenance  reflected  in  the  mirror  just 
as  she  again  unconsciously  uttered  that  frantic  ejacu- 
lation. She  gazed  in  wonder  at  the  haggard,  terri- 
fied expression,  and  then  laughed  to  see  the  look 
change  to  one  of  surprise.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
she  were  scanning  the  face  of  another.  She  was  in- 
deed "losing  her  own  identity." 

At  the  earliest  hour  that  the  mail  could  possibly 
arrive,  Mattie  was  hurried  to  the  post-office.  Stella 
awaited  her  brother's  answer  with  feverish  expecta- 
tion.   She  stationed  herself  at  the  window  to  watch. 


28  STELLA. 

The  instant  her  messenger  came  in  sight,  before  she 
could  reach  the  porch,  the  door  was  thrown  open. 

"  The  letter  !  the  letter  !  Give  me  my  brother's 
letter  !  " 

"  There  was  no  letter,  miss." 

"  No  letter?  Impossible  !  Has  the  post  come  in  ?  " 

"  I  inquired,  and  the  clerk  said  it  was  in,  and  the 
morning  mail  distributed." 

"  0,  Mattie  !  you  have  made  some  mistake  ;  do  go 
back  again  !  The  clerks  have  overlooked  the  letter  ! 
I  know  there  is  one  !     Make  them  find  it  I  " 

Mattie  was  only  too  ready  to  gratify  the  whims 
of  her  beloved  young  lady.  She  trudged  back  to 
the  post-office,  and  duly  tormented  the  clerk  with 
her  positive  assurance  that  he  had  mislaid  the  letter, 
and  must  look  again.  He  looked  —  there  was  no 
letter. 

Stella's  impatient  temperament  did  not  help  her 
to  bear  this  disappointment ;  but  she  had  no  alterna- 
tive. She  returned  to  the  study  of  Juliet,  and  soon 
even  her  brother's  missing  epistle  was  forgotten. 

Stella's  second  lesson  with  her  tutor  differed  from 
the  first.  In  the  fine  development  of  her  sentient 
faculties,  her  reflective  powers,  Mr.  Oakland  discov- 
ered germs  of  highest  promise.  But  he  found  that 
her  enthusiasm  fairly  ran  riot.  He  devoted  himself 
to  the  difficult  task  of  curbing  its  exuberance,  toning 
down  her  too  strong  coloring,  and  illustrating  the 
danger  of  extravagance,  even  though  it  be  true  to 
nature.  A  refined  audience  invariably  feel  the  dis- 
enchanting effect  of  exaggeration.  They  unavoid- 
ably take  that  one,  fatal  step  which  lies  between  the 
sublime  and  the  absurd.     But  Mr.  Oakland's  faith 


STELLA.  29 

in  his  pupil's  success  was  undiminished.  He  knew 
that  it  was  easier  to  rein  in  enthusiasm  than  to 
inspirit  tameness.  The  one  is  the  hand-maiden  of 
genius ;  the  other,  the  never-failing  companion  of 
mediocrity. 


CHAPTER  II. 

ErnesVs  Letter  to  his  Sister.  —  His  Views  of  the  Stage.  —  Un- 
perilled  Chastity.  —  A  Brother's  Entreaties.  —  Stella's  Un- 
altered Resolve.  —  Self-Will.  —  Application  to  Managers.  — 
An  Anxious  Interval.  —  Mr.  Oakland's  Disregarded  Warn- 
ing. —  A  Self-reliant  Nature.  —  A  Venture.  —  The  Stage 
Door.  —  First  Entrance  behind  the  Scenes.  —  Sudden  Intru- 
sion upon  a  Lugubrious  Manager.  — Mr.  Grimshaw's  Mys- 
terious Inquiries.  —  Stella's  Confusion.  —  Request  to  Read. 

—  Recital  of  Portia's  Address  to  Shylock.  —  The  Unexpected 
Interruption.  —  Insolence  of  an  Actress.  —  Stella  and  Mattie's 
Retreat  from  the  Manager's  Office.  —  Disconcerted,  not  Con- 
quered. —  An  Inspiring  Paragraph.  —  Obituary  of  the  Young 
Actress,  Lydia  Talbot.  —  A  Mantle  for  Shoulders  yet  Un- 
bound. —  Mr.  Belton's  Advertisement  for  a  M  Leading  Lady." 

—  "Eureka!" 

Stella's  first  thought,  the  next  morning,  was  of 
the  anticipated  letter.  The  ever-willing  Mattie  was 
despatched  to  the  post-office  long  before  it  was 
possible  for  the  mail  to  be  delivered.  During  her 
absence,  Stella's  restless  spirit  lengthened  the  min- 
utes to  hours,  through  its  tormenting  disquietude. 
At  last  her  straining  eyes  caught  sight  of  Mattie  in 
the  distance.  She  carried  something  white  in  her 
hand,  and  walked  at  a  rapid  pace.  But  that  quick 
tread  was  slow  to  the  expectant  girl.  She  darted 
out  of  the  room,  and  returned  in  an  instant,  exult- 
ingly  holding  up  the  letter. 


STELLA.  31 

"  It  has  come,  mother  !  My  brother's  letter  ! 
Now  all  is  right !  —  all  is  arranged  !  " 

"  Read  it  aloud,  dear,  will  you  ? "  replied  her 
mother,  in  a  more  animated  tone  than  usual. 

Stella  had  already  torn  open  the  seal,  destroying 
a  portion  of  the  writing.  Her  eyes  glanced  rapidly 
over  the  page ;  the  paper  shook  in  her  hands. 
Gradually  her  countenance  changed  ;  the  mantling 
blood  flew  back  from  her  cheeks,  the  delighted  ex- 
pression died  out  of  her  eyes.  She  read  silently  on 
and  on  to  the  close,  and  then  the  letter  fell  from  her 
nerveless  grasp. 

"  What  ails  you  ?   What  does  your  brother  say  ?  " 

Stella  drew  herself  up  with  a  look  of  resolution, 
almost  of  defiance,  and  exclaimed  :  "  Why  should  it 
matter  ?  It  shall  not  matter !  Nothing  now  shall 
turn  me  from  my  purpose  !  Ernest  should  have 
known  me  better !  " 

She  gave  the  letter  to  her  mother,  and  paced  the 
room  with  an  agitated  step  ;  her  hands  clasped  over 
her  head  —  her  favorite  attitude  —  in  dSep  medita- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Rosenvelt,  with  great  deliberation,  as  though 
she  had  been  called  upon  to  make  some  overpower- 
ing effort,  turned  to  her  son's  letter,  and  read  : 

"  New  York,  March  — ,  18—. 
"  Sweetest  Sister  in  the  World  : 

M  I  took  a  day  to  reflect  upon  your  letter,  and  the 
delay  has  not  altered  my  first  conviction.  Stella, 
you  well  know  that  I  reverence  the  profession  which 
I  adopted  from  choice.  I  toil  in  it  with  delight ;  I 
glory  in  the  rough  road  over  which,  step  by  step,  I 


32  STELLA. 

may  climb  to  eminence.  You  also  know  that  I  look 
upon  none  of  the  world's  baseless  prejudices  as  more 
false,  more  vulgar,  than  that  which  presupposes  that 
a  woman  who  enters  this  profession  hazards  her 
spotless  character,  or  is  even  subjected  to  more 
than  ordinary  temptations.  If  the  lode-star  of  purity 
dwell  in  her  heart,  it  attracts  to  itself  only  that 
which  is  pure.  If  light  thoughts  inhabit  there,  and 
evil  passions  convulse  her  breast,  then  may  the 
stage  prove  perilous.  What  place  is  safe  to  such 
infected  blood  ? 

"  Many  unfortunates  have  brought  their  frailties 
here,  and  thus  desecrated  our  temples  of  art ;  but  I 
do  not  believe  that  through  the  consequences  of  the 
profession  one  chaste  woman  ever  fell!  For  you,  my 
sister,  whose  mind  has  been  precept-strengthened, 
whose  spirit  is 

'  In  strong  proof  of  chastity  well  armed,' 

I  should  have  no  fears  of  shoals  and  quicksands 
But,  to  launch  you  upon  this  life  of  turmoil,  conten- 
tion, perpetual  struggling  !  —  you,  my  delicately- 
nurtured,  sensitive,  excitable  sister!  —  Heaven  for- 
bid !  To  bid  you,  who  have  been  environed,  from 
your  cradle,  with  the  appliances  of  ease  and  opu- 
lence, exist  upon  the  capricious  breath,  the  uncertain 
suffrages,  of  the  public  ?  —  never  !  To  throw  you, 
with  a  nervous  system  so  highly  strung  that  its 
chords  can  be  played  upon  by  every  chance  breeze, 
into  this  whirlwind  of  excitement?  —  never  !  I  im- 
plore you  to  abandon  all  thoughts  of  the  stage  as  a 
profession.  Your  talents  may  qualify  you  for  its 
adoption  ;  your  temperament  and  education  do  not. 


STELLA.  33 

The  sense  of  fitness  produced  by  the  former  is  neutral- 
ized by  the  latter. 

"  To  procure  you  an  engagement  here  would  not 
be  possible.  The  only  two  positions  you  could  hold 
are  permanently  occupied. 

"  And  now,  dear  sister,  let  me  ask,  Why  should 
you  trouble  your  unarithmetical  brain  with  calcula- 
tions about  the  cost  of  existence  ?  True,  my  salary 
is  limited  at  this  moment ;  but  it  will  provide,  in  a 
moderate  way,  for  you  and  my  mother.  You  may  be 
forced  to  encounter  a  few  privations  ;  but  the  future 
is  rich  in  promise,  and  they  will  not  be  of  long  dura- 
tion. 

"  You  will  trust  to  your  brother's  judgment  ?  You 
will  heed  his  warning  ?  Will  you  not  ?  Say  '  Yes, ' 
and  that  you  pardon  him  for  gainsaying  the  beloved 
being  whose  wishes  he  never  before  thwarted.  My 
love  to  our  dear  mother.  Take  tender  care  of  her, 
for  your  own  sake,  and  for  that  of 

"  Your  devoted  brother, 

"  Ernest  Rosenvelt." 

As  Mrs.  Rosenvelt  finished  the  letter,  she  gazed 
with  a  troubled  expression  at  her  daughter,  who  was 
still  pacing  the  room,  her  hands  tightly  clasped,  her 
pale  lips  compressed,  her  whole  soul  evidently  in 
tumult. 

"  Stella,  what  Ernest  says  is  so  reasonable,  so 
right!  " 

"  Right  for  him,  mother  ;  but  wrong  for  me,  should 
I  heed  him.  Why  should  I  sit  with  folded  hands, 
growing  weary  of  my  own  purposeless  existence, 
while  he  strains  every  nerve  in  the  exercise  of  his 


34  STELLA. 

faculties  ?  To  what  end  has  Heaven  gifted  me  with 
equal  talents,  if  I  am  not  to  use  them  ?  Ask  Mr. 
Oakland  whether  or  not  I  possess  them  !  Sensitive, 
excitable,  and  unaccustomed  to  hardships,  I  may  be, 
as  he  says  ;  but  what  I  am  is  not  what  I  may  become 
through  fitting  discipline  !  n 

"  Pray  be  calm,  Stella  !  It  distresses  me  to  hear 
you  talk  in  that  wild  tone.  What,  then,  do  you  pro- 
pose to  do  ?  " 

"  Not  to  discuss  the  matter  with  my  brother  — 
my  arguments  will  not  move  him,  nor  have  his  moved 
me.  But,  unless  you  forbid  it,  mother,  —  and  I  pray 
you  not  to  do  so,  —  I  must  still  obey  the  dictates  of 
this  strong  impulse  within  me.  I  must  become  an 
actress  !  " 

"  How  is  it  possible  without  your  brother's  assist- 
ance ?  w 

"  I  must  make  it  possible  I  Only  tell  me  that  you 
do  not  oppose  the  attempt." 

"No  —  not  exactly  —  if  there  is  no  other  way  of 
contenting  you.     But  —  " 

"  Thank  you,  mother ;  and  let  me  crush  in  the  bud 
all  huts.     Now  I  must  consult  Mr.  Oakland." 

We  pass  over  Stella's  interview  with  her  tutor. 

He  took  sides  with  her  brother,  and  refused  either 
to  advise  or  assist  her  in  obtaining  an  engagement. 
Stella  was  disconcerted,  not  conquered.  Her  self- 
reliant  nature  was  not  dependent  upon  extraneous 
support. 

That  very  afternoon,  she  addressed  letters  to  the 
managers  of  three  theatres  in  Boston,  earnestly 
requesting  an  immediate  reply.     She  also  wrote  to 


STELLA.  35 

her  brother,  and  apprised  him  of  her  unaltered  de- 
termination. 

A  week  passed.  Her  letters  to  managers  brought 
no  answers.  The  reply  from  her  brother  showed 
that  he  counted  upon  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  an 
engagement,  and  looked  forward  to  her  discourage- 
ment and  final  abandonment  of  the  project. 

During  this  week  Stella  paid  daily  visits  to  Mr. 
Oakland,  and  her  studies  were  prosecuted  as  ener- 
getically as  though  every  arrangement  for  her  debut 
was  concluded. 

Mr.  Oakland  imagined  that  her  fervor  would  be 
damped  by  neglect  on  the  part  of  managers,  and 
opposition  on  that  of  her  brother.  He  might  as  well 
have  hoped  to  see  a  fire  quenched  by  the  adverse 
blowing  of  the  wind,  which  only  makes  it  blaze  the 
higher. 

"  Is  it  not  strange  that  I  receive  no  reply  ?  w  she 
inquired  of  her  tutor. 

"Not  very,"  was  his  dry  answer.  "Managers 
are  not  apt  to  notice  letters  which  may  emanate 
from  pretenders  of  all  sorts.  They  are  generally 
looked  upon  as  the  effusions  of  stage-struck  misses, 
who  place  an  estimate  upon  their  own  abilities  and 
attractions  which  the  public  is  not  likely  to  have  the 
complaisance  to  endorse." 

M  And  what  shall  I  do  to  convince  them  that  I  do 
not  belong  to  this  class  ?  " 

M  I  have  already  said  that  I  would  have  no  agency 
in  this  matter,  that  I  would  not  even  advise  you." 

M  True,  my  dear,  unconquerable  Mentor  !  I  know 
you  are  as  obstinate  —  as  obstinate  —  as  obstinate 
as  I  am  myself!     If  managers  will  not  notice  my 


36  STELLA. 

letters,  and  if  I  cannot  persuade  any  one  to  inter- 
cede for  me,  there  is  but  one  alternative  left.  I  must 
essay  the  eloquence  of  my  own  tongue ;  I  must 
plead  in  person ;  that  is  what  I  intend  to  do  next." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  success,  even  then,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Oakland,  oracularly. 

"  At  all  events,  I  echo  the  words  of  my  country's 
hero,  and  pin  my  faith  to  his  colors  —  'I'll  try!7 
So,  good-morning." 

"Had  you  not  better  wait?  had  you  not  better 
reflect  a  while  ?  M  urged  Mr.  Oakland,  detaining  her. 
"  There  is  no  truer  admonition  than  the  old  friar's  : 

*  Too  swift  arrives  as  tardy  as  too  slow.'  " 

"  I  am  no  more  inclined  to  heed  him  than  was 
the  impetuous  youth  upon  whom  his  warning  was 
wasted.  '  They  stumble  who  run  fast '  may  be  true 
enough,  when  the  pulses  beat  sluggishly ;  but  the 
rapid  strokes  of  mine  sound  the  alarm  for  instant 
action.  So,  bestow  upon  me  one  benedicite,  good 
Friar  Lawrence,  and  let  me  be  gone." 

The  next  morning,  accompanied  by  the  faithful 
Mattie,  Stella  presented  herself  at  the  front  entrance 
of  a  theatrical  establishment  which,  in  those  days, 
held  the  highest  rank  in  Boston.  She  drew  back  to 
escape  notice,  and  desired  Mattie  to  inquire  at  the 
box-office  if  Mr.  Grimshaw  could  be  seen. 

"How  many  tickets?  —  what  circle?"  asked  a 
gruff  voice. 

"None,  thank  you.  A  lady  wishes  to  see  the 
manager." 

"  This  is  not  the  place  to  inquire." 


STELLA.  31 

"  And  which  is  the  place  ?  "  questioned  Mattie, 
prompted  by  Stella's  whisper. 

"  Make  way  there,  my  good  woman !  You  are 
preventing  people  from  coming  up  for  their  tickets, 
—  get  out,  will  you  ?  " 

Mattie  was  retiring,  but  Stella  whispered  to  her 
again. 

"It's  on  business,  sir;  we  would  be  obliged  to 
you  for  informing  us  where  we  should  inquire." 

"Private  entrance  —  round  the  corner  —  make 
way  there,  I  say !  " 

Stella  was  glad  to  retreat.  The  crowd  of  ticket- 
purchasers  gathering  around  the  box-office  surveyed 
her  with  impertinent  glances. 

The  private  entrance  !  She  and  Mattie  sought  for 
it  in  vain.  They  went  "  round  the  corner,"  accord- 
ing to  direction  ;  trying  the  nearest  corner,  and  then 
inspecting  the  furthest  corner,  and  then  the  first 
corner  again.  They  expected  to  discover  a  place 
of  admission  resembling  the  ladies'  entrance  to  some 
fashionable  hotel. 

"  Ask  that  boy,"  said  Stella,  designating  a  well- 
dressed  youth  who  was  intently  perusing  a  play-bill. 

Mattie  made  the  inquiry. 

The  stripling  hardly  raised  his  eyes  from  the 
promised  dramatic  feast,  as  he  gave  vent  to  a  care- 
less "  Don't  bother  me  !  " 

Stella  accosted  him  herself. 

He  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  her  musical  voice. 
Evidently  mistaking  her,  from  the  nature  of  her 
question,  for  some  young  actress  recently  engaged, 
he  bowed,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  sudden  interest, 
"  Allow  me  to  show  you." 
4 


38  STELLA. 

He  pointed  out  a  small,  rough-looking  door,  which 
opened  into  a  narrow  alley.  Stella  was  disconcerted 
at  the  uninviting  locality.  She  pressed  close  to 
Mattie,  and  grasped  her  dress  with  a  vague  fear,  as 
they  entered.  The  young  girl  took  a  step  or  two  *, 
then  hesitated,  and  stopped. 

"  Which  way  must  we  go  to  see  the  manager  ?  " 

"  You  will  find  a  door  at  the  end  of  this  passage, 
which  opens  into  the  theatre  ;  but,  as  you  appear  to 
be  strangers,  permit  me  to  lead  the  way." 

They  followed  him  through  the  close,  and  by  no 
means  odoriferous  or  cleanly  alley.  There  was  a 
door  at  the  end,  upon  which  the  youth  loudly 
knocked.  It  was  opened  by  an  individual  with  a 
rubicund  face,  and  heavy,  bloodshot  eyes. 

"  Show  this  lady  to  Mr.  Grimshaw's  office,"  said 
the  boy,  with  an  authoritative  air.  It  conveyed  the 
impression  that  the  lady  in  question  was  expected 
by  Mr.  Grimshaw,  and  had  the  right  to  enter. 

Stella  gracefully  thanked  her  escort,  and,  with 
Mattie,  followed  the  sleepy  door-keeper. 

At  first  they  appeared  to  be  in  almost  total  dark- 
ness. She  could  not  imagine  into  what  part  of  the 
theatre  they  had  been  ushered.  What  was  that 
Mattie  struck  against  ? 

"  Keep  clear  of  the  wings ! "  drawled  out  their 
slumberous  guide. 

They  were  behind  the  scenes,  then,  —  that  myste- 
rious haunt  of  Melpomene,  Euterpe,  Terpsichore, 
into  which  she  had  so  often  longed  to  intrude  !  Be- 
hind the  scenes  of  a  theatre !  An  indefinite,  won- 
dering awe  began  to  steal  over  her,  but  hardly  of 


STELLA.  39 

that  kind  which  cries  out,  "Put  the  shoes  from  off 
thy  feet ! " 

Through  winding  nooks,  and  passages  crowded 
with  scenery,  hardly  visible  in  the  dim  light,  they 
followed  their  conductor,  trying  to  peer  into  the 
gloom,  and  fathom  some  of  the  supposed  marvels 
of  the  theatrical  labyrinth. 

He  knocked  at  a  door. 

"Enter!"  sounded  from  within,  in  such  a  deep, 
sepulchral  tone,  it  might  have  appropriately  issued 
from  a  tomb  (a  stage  tomb),  or  been  uttered  by  the 
ghost  of  Hamlet. 

"  A  lady  for  you,  sir !  "  The  man  threw  open  the 
door,  and  retraced  his  steps  along  the  "untrodden 
ways  "  which  Stella  had  just  threaded  for  the  first 
time. 

Seated  at  a  table  which  was  covered  with  play- 
bills and  manuscripts,  was  a  grim-looking  man,  in  a 
would-be  heroic  attitude.  His  long,  shaggy  hair 
fell  around  a  cadaverous  visage  ;  his  dark  eyes  were 
studiously  fierce  ;  his  attire  had  a  melodramatic  air, 
from  the  tie  of  the  cravat  to  the  cut  of  the  coat. 

Mr.  Grimshaw  was  an  actor  as  well  as  a  manager. 
He  belonged  to  that  numerous  class  of  Thespians 
who  never  cease  personating  some  favorite  character, 
—  to  whom  the  world  is  as  much  a  stage  as  the 
actual  "boards." 

Stella's  courage  began  sensibly  to  ooze  away. 
How  fervently  she  wished  herself  out  of  the  dra- 
matic lion's  den ! 

"Mr.  Grimshaw,  I  believe,"  she  murmured  tim- 
idly. 

"  Even  so  !  "  replied  the  unearthly  voice. 


40  STELLA. 

"  I  think  you  received  a  letter,  signed  Stella  Rosen- 
velt,  about  a  week  ago." 

"Pro-ceed!"  Stella  fancied  his  tone  had  sunk 
a  portentous  octave  lower. 

"lam  Stella  Rosenvelt."  She  seated  herself  un- 
bidden ;  Mattie  had  offered  a  chair. 

"Proceed!" 

"I  —  I  am  desirous  —  I  am  seeking  —  that  is,  it 
is  my  wish  to  obtain  an  engagement  in  some  theatre  : 
this  one,  if  possible." 

"  What  line  ?  "  still  with  tragic  intonation. 

'I  I  beg  pardon,  sir  —  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"What  line?" 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

"  What  business  ?  " 

"  My  business  I  have  just  told  you,  sir." 

"  What  line  of  business  ?  "  The  words  were 
thundered  out  with  a  touch  of  regal  wrath. 

"  The  stage,  sir,  as  I  said  before." 

The  manager  rolled  his  eyes  at  the  marvellous 
unsophistication  of  this  person  to  whom  he  conde- 
scended to  give  audience. 

"  What  have  you  acted  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  as  yet,  sir." 

"Novice?    Ah!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Want  situation  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  line?" 

"Sir?" 

"Tragedy?  comedy?  walking  lady?  singing 
chambermaid?  What  line?  'Wind  up  the  watch 
of  your  wit,  and  strike  ! ;  " 


STELLA.  41 

"  0 ! "  exclaimed  Stella,  comprehending  at  last, 
"such  characters  as  Juliet,  and  Desdemona,  and 
Portia." 

11  Juvenile  tragedy !  My  favorite  business.  '  Give 
us  a  taste  of  your  quality  ! '  n  waving  his  hand  ma- 
jestically. 

"Sir?" 

"  Anything —  don't  matter  what  —  a  touch  of  the 
tragic,  if  you  like.  But — 'suit  the  action  to  the 
word,  the  word  to  the  action,  with  this  special  ob- 
servance, that  you  o'erstep  not  the  modesty  of 
nature ;  for  anything  so  overdone  is  from  the  pur- 
pose of  playing,  whose  end,  both  at  the  first  and 
now,  was,  and  is,  to  hold,  as  H  were,  the  mirror  up 
to  nature ;  to  show  Virtue  her  own  features,  Scorn 
her  own  image,  and  the  very  age  and  body  of  the 
time  his  form  and  pressure  ! '  "  This  memorable 
injunction  was  delivered  by  Mr.  Grimshaw  with  a 
stilted  declamation  that  admirably  illustrated  the  old 
saying,  "  Do  as  I  preach,  not  as  I  do." 

Stella  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  as  she  falter- 
ingly  asked,  "  Shall  I  recite  Portia's  address  to 
Shylock?" 

"Pro-ceed!" 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  she  rose  —  paused  — 
then,  in  an  uncertain,  husky  tone,  commenced  : 

"  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained  ; 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  dew  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath.     It  is  twice  blessed  : 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes. 
'T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown. 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 


42  STELLA. 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  fear  and  dread  of  kings : 
But  mercy  is  above  the  sceptred  sway  ; 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts —  " 

The  door  opened.  Stella  ceased.  A  bold-visaged 
but  handsome  female,  in  showy  attire,  entered  the 
room. 

"  Hearts ! M  echoed  she,  contemptuously ;  "  hearts ! 
Really,  '  I  hope  I  don't  intrude/  as  Paul  Pry  says." 

"  Silence  !  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Grimshaw.  "  Note 
you  not  that  this  young  person  ^ 


hath  into  bondage 


Brought  my  too  diligent  ear  '  ?  " 

"  Only  diligent  when  there  's  mischief  brewing  !  " 
retorted  the  lady,  glancing  rudely  at  Stella. 

Mr.  Grimshaw  gave  her  a  ferocious  look,  then 
turned  to  the  frightened  girl,  and,  in  a  stentorian 
voice,  cried  out,  "  Pro-ceed ! M 

M  The  hearts  —  the  hearts  of  kings  —  ' ■ 

continued  Stella. 

"It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings." 

She  paused.  The  scornful  eyes  of  her  new  auditor 
took  away  her  voice,  and  dimmed  her  memory. 

"  Pro-ceed  !  w  repeated  Mr.  Grimshaw. 

But  Stella  was  unable  to  comply  ;  she  dropped 
silently  into  her  seat. 

"  Very  entertaining,  really ! n  was  the  sarcastic 
feminine  comment.  "I  ought  to  apologize  for  in- 
terrupting your  private  theatricals  !  " 

Stella  turned  haughtily  to  the  manager. 


STELLA.  43 

"  Did  I  understand  you,  sir,  that  you  might  pos- 
sibly give  me  an  engagement  ?  " 

"  An  engagement ! "  almost  shrieked  the  lady. 
"  You  ventured  —  you  dared  to  promise  her  an  en- 
gagement in  this  theatre,  when  the  leading  parts, 
such  as  I  presume  she  has  the  impertinence  to  aspire 
to,  from  what  I  heard  her  spouting,  all  belong  to 
me!" 

"  Madam  !  "  exclaimed  the  manager,  pleasurably 
excited  at  the  prospect  of  a  scene  in  real  life ; 
"  Madam,"  and  he  thrust  his  long  fingers  through 
his  tangled  hair,  "  doubt  me  not,  but  listen  !  " 

"I  have  listened,  and  —  " 

u  '  Hear  me  for  my  cause,  and  be  silent  that  you 
may  hear ! '  " 

Stella  could  endure  this  contest  no  longer.  She 
rose,  with  dignity,  and  said,  "  I  have  evidently  mis- 
understood you,  sir ;  I  must  bid  you  good-morning. 
May  I  beg  that  you  will  order  some  one  to  show  me 
the  way  out  ?  " 

11  Show  you  the  way  out  ?  n  repeated  the  lady,  with 
an  insolent  laugh.  "  Nothing  we  '11  do  with  more 
pleasure,  and  you  need  n't  remember  your  road 
back !  " 

"  Nick,"  called  out  Mr.  Grimshaw  to  a  boy  who 
was  passing  the  door  with  a  basket  on  his  shoulder, 
11  show  these  ladies  through  the  front  entrance." 

"  Nick 's  the  guide  you  generally  give  your  pupils  ; 
but  your  paths  are  usually  the  back  ways  !  " 

Stella  and  Mattie  could  not  avoid  hearing  this 
coarse  remark,  as  the  door  was  slammed  to  behind 
them.     Descending  a  stair,  they  soon  found  them- 


44  STELLA. 

selves  in  the  box-office,  and  a  moment  afterwards  in 
the  street. 

Stella  checked  her  attendant's  affectionate  volubil- 
ity with,  "It  's  too  dreadful !  I  can't  talk  of  it, 
Mattie  ;  let  us  hasten  home  ;  my  head  is  whirling  !  " 

She  had  not  abandoned  her  scheme,  but  her  reso- 
lution had  received  a  shock.  Leaving  Mattie  to  give 
her  own  account  of  their  adventure  to  Mrs.  Rosen- 
velt,  Stella  retired  to  her  chamber,  deeply  mortified, 
and  inclined  to  chide  f/  every  breather  living."  With 
her  mercurial  temperament,  this  mood  could  not  last. 
She  was  too  buoyant,  too  sanguine,  too  full  of  re- 
sources. She  resolved  to  implore  her  brother  to 
furnish  her  with  a  letter  of  introduction  to  some 
manager  of  standing.  That  would  smooth  her  way ; 
she  would  deliver  it  in  person,  and  doubtless  procure 
the  desired  engagement. 

A  morning  paper  was  lying  before  her.  Of  late 
she  had  read  all  the  theatrical  intelligence ;  other 
public  news  possessed  little  interest.  Her  eyes 
rested  upon  an  eulogistic  obituary  of  Miss  Lydia 
Talbot,  a  young  actress,  whose  loss  the  dramatic 
community  were  loudly  lamenting.  As  the  "  stock 
star"  of  a  popular  theatre,  in  Boston,  she  had  shone 
several  years  in  the  dramatic  firmament.  The  writer 
remarked  "  that  no  actress  yet  had  been  found  upon 
whose  shoulders  her  mantle  could  worthily  fall."  A 
crowd  of  hopes  rushed,  with  headlong  impetuosity, 
into  Stella's  quick-suggesting  brain.  They  filled  the 
atmosphere  with  rainbow  tints,  and  lifted  her  up  on 
soaring  wings.  She  glanced  at  the  next  column,  and 
every  hope  assumed  form  and  substance,  and  stood 
before  her — a  reality ! 


STELLA.  45 

The  manager  of  the  theatre  to  which  Miss  Talbot 
formerly  belonged  advertised  that  the  situation  of 
"leading  lady,"  in  his  theatre,  was  vacant.  He 
invited  immediate  applications  from  gifted  members 
of  the  profession.  The  hours  between  ten  and  three 
Qf  that  day  were  appointed  for  the  personal  recep- 
tion of  candidates. 

"  Eureka !  "  cried  Stella,  internally.  She  turned 
to  the  clock ;  it  wanted  a  quarter  often.  Before  the 
hour  sounded  she  and  Mattie  were  on  their  way  to 
the  theatre. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Light  in  which  Mr.  Belton  regarded  his  Company  and  his  Audi- 
ence. —  A  Conscientious  Manager.  —  An  Inexplicable  but  very 
General  Hallucination.  —  Stella's  Interview  with  Mr.  Belton. 

—  A  Wished-for  Result.  —  Explanations  and  Stipulations. — 
An  Important  Item  forgotten  by  the  Dramatic  Candidate. — 
Prosaic  Business  Arrangements.  —  An  Engagement.  —The 
Contract.  —  Ten  Days  before  the  Debut. —  Cabalistic  Words  of 
the  First  "Call." — Stella's  Irresistible  Entreaties  to  her  Tutor 

—  The  Novice's  First  Rehearsal.  —  Aspect  behind  the  Scenes. 

—  Illusions  Dissolved.  —  Mr.  Allsop,  the  Prompter.  —  Fisk, 
the  Call-Boy.  —  Fantasticalities  of  Fisk.  —  Stella's  Perturba- 
tion. —  Formal  Introductions.  —  Virginius  Rehearsed.  —  Sen- 
sations of  the  Novice.  —  The  Manager's  Command.  —  De- 
rision of  Actors.  —  Wavering.  —  The  Alternative.  —  Decision 
before  it  is  too  Late. 9.  New  and  Convenient  Style  of  Decla- 
mation. —  Romance  Dethroned.  —  The  Nimble-tongued  Icilius. 

—  Dentatus  on  Crutches.  —  A  High-spirited  Girl  Metamor- 
phosed into  a  Conscious  Automaton.  —  Mrs.  Fairfax.  — 
Heavenly  Music  of  Sympathy.  —  Theatrical  Formalities  at  an 
End.  —  Fisk's  Oracular  Decision.  —  The  Novice  Disheart- 
ened. —  "  Feathers  of  Lead." 

Mr.  Belton  was  not  a  manager  of  ordinary  stamp. 
The  mania  of  speculation,  with  which  the  larger 
numbers  of  his  confreres  were  afflicted,  had  not  lured 
him  into  becoming  the  autocrat  of  a  theatre.  A 
genuine  passion  for  the  profession,  a  desire  to  pro- 
mote its  interests,  combined,  perhaps,  with  a  natural 
love  of  rule,  rendered  him  a  theatrical  lessee.  He 
looked  upon  the  members  of  his  company  as  an  in- 


STELLA.  47 

congruous  family  circle,  of  which  he  was  the  all- 
potent  head.  He  regarded  his  audiences  as  a  bevy 
of  captious  friends,  whom  he  condescended  to  amuse 
and  instruct.  He  took  pleasure  in  noticing  the  same 
well-known  faces  nightly  scattered  through  his 
boxes.  One  cluster  of  venerable  habitues,  who  con- 
gregated in  the  stage-box,  he  invariably  watched. 
Through  their  approval  of  or  dissent  to  a  perform- 
ance, his  judgments  were  silently  swayed.  He  com- 
prehended and  revered  the  social  influence  of  the 
drama.  He  was  conscientious,  and  never  intention- 
ally ministered  to  a  meretricious  or  vitiated  taste. 

In  his  disbursements  Mr.  Belton  was  strictly  eco- 
nomical, but  as  rigidly  just.  The  salaries  he  allowed 
were  not  large,  but  they  were  always  certain.  His 
company  was,  perhaps,  too  limited,  but  its  members 
labored  amicably  and  indefatigably.  Some  of  the 
subordinates  rejoiced  in  two  sets  of  cognomens  on 
the  bills,  and  were  adepts  in  doubling  characters ; 
but  it  was  the  unanimous  opinion  that  double  duty, 
under  Mr.  Belton's  management,  was  lighter  than 
single  duty  in  more  pretentious  establishments,  where 
less  system  and  justice  reigned. 

It  was  almost  a  misfortune  for  Mr.  Belton  that 
he  was  endowed  with  histrionic  talent.  In  common 
with  the  generality  of  actors,  he  mistook  his  own 
forte  As  a  comedian  he  would  have  shone  preemi- 
nent. His  rotund  figure,  jolly  face,  the  merry 
twinkle  of  his  eye,  the  bonhommie  of  his  whole  man- 
ner, peculiarly  fitted  him  for  humorous  person- 
ations. But  Mr.  Belton  detested  comedy.  High 
tragedy  was  his  aspiration.  He  would  rather  have 
been  hissed  as  Lear  than  applauded  as  Dogberry. 


48  STELLA. 

As  he  was  sole  arbitrator  in  his  theatre,  no  one  could 
remonstrate  against  his  assumption  of  the  tragic 
heroes  ;  that  is  to  say,  no  one  but  the  audience,  and 
they  now  and  then  availed  themselves  of  the  privi- 
lege. When  the  sound  of  merriment  greeted  his 
ears,  instead  of  an  expected  burst  of  applause,  Mr. 
Belton  gravely  asked  "  what  the  people  could  be 
laughing  at." 

"  Ah,  well !  "  he  would  console  himself  by  saying, 
"  we  must  educate  our  audiences  until  they  compre- 
hend us  ;  nothing  like  elevating  an  audience  to  one's 
own  standard.  Besides,  they  have '  been  so  much 
accustomed  to  laugh  when  I  intended  to  be  funny, 
that  they  never  understand  me  when  I  show  them 
how  high  tragedy  ought  to  be  acted." 

The  decease  of  Miss  Talbot  had  left  in  the  theatre 
a  vacancy  difficult  to  be  filled.  Mr.  Belton  was  sit- 
ting in  his  office,  searching  the  morning  papers  for 
favorable  notices,  when  he  was  informed  that  several 
ladies  had  called  in  answer  to  his  advertisement. 

"  Show  them  up,  one  at  a  time ;  first  come  first 
served,  remember  ;  —  a  fair  chance  for  all."  Then, 
as  the  messenger  left  the  room,  he  added,  "  There  '11 
be  no  contenting  the  public,  no  matter  whom  I 
engage.  They'll  be  sure  to  say  she  can't  step  into 
the  shoes  of  poor  Lydia." 

Three  young  dramatic  aspirants,  in  turn,  obtained 
an  interview.  All  three  passed  out  of  the  theatre 
with  downcast  countenances.  Stella,  accompanied 
as  usual  by  her  attendant,  was  now  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Belton.  She  was  prepared  to  en- 
counter a  second  edition  of  Mr.  Grimshaw.  Mr. 
Belton's  courteous  reception  and  gentlemanlike  bear- 


STELLA.  49 

ing  quickly  placed  her  at  ease.  She  briefly  made 
known  her  wishes.  Mr.  Belton  listened  with  an  air 
of  interest.  He  requested  her  to  read.  With  prompt 
self-possession  she  delivered  the  animated  dialogue 
which  takes  place  from  Juliet's  moon-lighted  balcony, 
between  the  lovers  of  Verona. 

Mr.  Belton's  countenance  expressed  more  than  he 
framed  into  language.  Managerial  policy  is  chary 
of  praise.  He  allowed  her  to  resume  her  seat  in 
silence.  His  internal  ejaculation  was,  "  How  for- 
tunate! She  has  unquestionable  talent — grace, 
freshness,  beauty ;  she  may  perhaps  replace  our 
Lydia!" 

"  You  have  probably  no  idea,  Miss  Rosenvelt,  of 
the  arduous  duties  incumbent  upon  every  member 
of  this  profession.  Histrionic  eminence  is  not  com- 
patible with  a  life  of  ease  and  pleasure." 

"  I  know  something  of  the  mode  of  life,  sir  ;  my 
brother  is  an  actor." 

"  Still  it  is  better  that  we  should  understand  each 
other.  My  company  say  that  they  work  harder  than 
any  other  ;  —  perhaps  they  do.  If  you  engage  with 
me,  I  shall  expect  your  energies  to  be  at  my  com- 
mand. You  may  be  disheartened,  at  first,  at  the 
amount  of  study  requisite.  Then  I  cast  all  plays  my- 
self, and  allow  no  dictation,  though  I  endeavor  to  be 
just.  I  permit  no  refusing  of  parts,  —  no  contention 
about  the  manner  in  which  the  names  shall  appear 
upon  the  bills.  The  interests  of  my  company  are  my 
interests,  and  that  must  content  them." 

"  I  think  there  will  be  no  difficulty,  sir." 

U  Then  I  will  make  you  the  offer  of  a  trial  engage- 
ment.    Mr.  Tennent  commences  with  me  on  Monday 


50  STELLA. 

next.  Miss  Talbot  was  to  have  supported  him. 
You  can  occupy  her  place.  But  I  warn  you  that 
the  public  will  demand  a  great  deal  from  any  suc- 
cessor of  hers.  Your  name  shall  appear  second  to 
Mr.  Tennent's  at  the  head  of  the  bills.  If  you  suc- 
ceed, you  can  keep  it  there.  If  you  make  a  great  hit, 
and  sustain  it  by  after  performances,  your  name,  in 
time,  will  be  placed  first.  Your  line  of  business  will, 
of  course,  be  juvenile  tragedy  and  comedy.  Occa- 
sionally you  may  be  called  upon  to  attempt  heavy 
tragedy  ;  —  that  depends  upon  the  plays  which  Mr. 
Tennent  selects.  I  will  keep  you  out  of  afterpieces 
for  awhile  ;  but  you  must  prepare  yourself  to  appear 
in  them  when  you  are  a  little  more  familiar  with  the 
stage." 

Stella  could  with  difficulty  conceal  a  rush  of 
tumultuous  emotions  as  she  asked,  "  In  what  char- 
acter am  I  to  make  my  debut  ?  " 

Mr.  Belton  referred  to  Mr.  Tennent's  last  letter. 
"  '  First  night,  Virginius  ;  second  night,  Othello. ' 
Good, — you  will  make  your  debut  in  Virginia,  and 
the  next  night  appear  in  Desdemona.  That  will  do 
admirably.  Your  powers  will  not  be  too  severely 
taxed.  You  will  not  be  overweighted  at  the  first  start. 
You  will  gradually  become  accustomed  to  the  foot- 
lights. Perhaps  you  are  not  aware  of  their  terrifying 
effect  upon  novices  ?  " 

"  I  scarcely  think  I  shall  feel  alarmed,"  said  Stella, 
confidently.  "  Could  you  favor  me  with  a  list  of  the 
other  characters  which  I  shall  be  required  to 
study  ?  " 

"Mr.  Tennent  has  only  selected  his  plays  for  the 
two  first  nights.     He  acts  with  me  for  one  fortnight. 


STELLA.  51 

Probably  the  plays  will  not  be  settled  upon,  until  he 
arrives." 

".  But  what  time  should  I  then  have  even  to  mem- 
orize my  parts  ?  " 

"  The  same  time  that  the  other  ladies  have,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Belton,  carelessly.  "  Here  is  a  list  of  all 
the  dramas  which  Mr.  Tennent  acted  when  he  was 
here  last.  He  will  repeat  most  of  them.  If  you 
choose,  you  can  study  hap-hazard,  so  as  to  be  l  up  ? 
in  as  many  pieces  as  possible." 

"  I  will  study  all,"  thought  Stella,  nothing  daunt- 
ed.    Without  examination,  she  folded  up  the  list. 

"  When  will  there  be  a  —  a —  a  rehearsal  ?  " 

Well  might  she  hesitate ;  that  word  brought  so 
forcibly  to  mind  all  that  was  before  her. 

"  Let  me  see  ;  — Mr.  Tennent  will  not  be  here  be 
fore  Monday  morning ;  but,  as  you  are  a  debutante, 
I  will  call  a  rehearsal,  with  the  company,  for  you,  on 
Saturday.  On  Monday  you  will  rehearse  with  Mr. 
Tennent.  You  must  manage  with  two  rehearsals  ;  — 
they  are  not  enough,  I  admit." 

"  0,  quite  enough,  I  dare  say;"  and  Stella  rose 
to  depart.  She  was  impatient  to  return  home,  that 
the  pent-up  sensations  which  agitated  her  breast 
might  find  vent. 

"  You  have  forgotten  one  very  important  part  of 
the  business, —  one  of  which  actors  are  not  usually 
oblivious.  The  small  item  of  salary.  Hamlet  says, 
'  The  lover  shall  not  sigh  gratis.'  " 

"  0,  yes  !  I  did  forget ;  but  I  leave  that  to  you ; 
of  course  it  will  be  all  right." 

"  Rather  a  loose  way  of  doing  business, —  not  after 
my  style  at  all.     Pray  be  seated  for  another  moment. 


52  STELLA. 

I  shall  not  pretend  to  offer  you  the  salary  that  I  gave 
Miss  Talbot ;  you  must  first  render  yourself  so  val- 
uable to  my  establishment  that  you  can  command 
the  same  remuneration.  Five  years  ago,  in  this  very 
room,  —  yes,  in  that  very  arm-chair  where  .you  are 
now  sitting, —  she  signed  her  first  contract  with  me. 
Poor  Lydia !  " 

Mr.  Belton  paused  and  hemmed,  and  turned  over 
the  play-bills  hastily,  as  though  he  were  fearful  of 
betraying  an  emotion  in  the  presence  of  this  young 
girl,  which,  before  the  foot-lights  and  the  eyes  of  the 
public,  he  would  not  have  thought  of  repressing. 

After  a  moment,  he  cleared  from  his  throat  a  tell- 
tale huskiness,  and  resumed. 

"Her  salary — her  salary  at  that  time  was  thirty 
dollars  per  week.  I  offer  you  the  same  terms  for 
your  two  first  weeks ;  after  that,  there  may  be  an 
increase.     Are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  and  again  Stella  rose  to  depart. 

"Be  seated — pray  be  seated; — words  are  not 
bonds." 

Stella  sat  down,  evidently  chafing  at  the  delay,  and 
rendered  uncomfortable  by  prosaic  business  details, 
to  which  she  was  wholly  unused. 

Mr.  Belton  drew  up  two  contracts,  and,  signing 
them  himself,  requested  Miss  Rosenvelt's  signature. 
He  then  presented  her  with  one,  and  carefully  placed 
the  other  in  his  desk.  For  the  third  time  Stella 
started  up,  and  Mr.  Belton  now  conducted  her  to  the 
door. 

She  could  not  return  home  without  communicating 
her  success  to  Mr.  Oakland.  He  was  engaged  with 
a  class  when  she  called  at  his  residence ;  but  she 


STELLA.  53 

petitioned  for  a  moment's  interview.  When  he  came 
to  the  door  she  recounted,  in  a  scarcely  coherent 
manner,  her  morning's  adventure,  and,  without  wait- 
ing for  his  deliberate  reply,  hastened  home,  and 
roused  her  apathetic  mother  with  her  startling  story. 

It  wanted  but  ten  days  of  the  evening  fixed  for 
her  debut, —  and  how  much  remained  to  be  accom- 
plished !  Parts  to  be  studied,  materials  for  dresses 
to  be  selected,  costumes  to  be  decided  upon,  and 
fashioned  after  historical  authority. 

Stella  was  guided  by  Mrs.  Oakland's  chaste  and 
refined  taste,  in  the  choice  of  her  stage  attire.  They 
agreed  that  the  external  draping  and  adorning  should 
be  a  manifestation  of  the  character  assumed.  Mr. 
Oakland  advocated  the  severest  simplicity.  He 
detested  the  tawdry  ostentation  of  stage  heroines 
in  general,  and  argued  that  prodigality  of  ornament 
oftener  concealed  than  set  forth  real  charms. 

Mattie  and  a  nimble-fingered  assistant  sat  plying 
their  needles  in  Mrs.  Rosenvelt's  chamber,  from  day- 
light until  midnight.  Even  Mrs.  Rosenvelt  herself 
now  and  then  ran  a  seam  or  bound  on  a  trimming. 
She  found  the  bustling,  occupied  manner  of  every 
one  around  her  irresistibly  contagious. 

On  Friday  evening  Stella  received  a  note  which 
rendered  her  already  perturbed  brain  giddy  with 
agitation.  The  epistle  contained  but  these  cabalistic 
words  : 

"Virginius  —  rehearsed,    ten    o'clock,    Saturday 

morning,  April  — ,  . 

"  Tobias  Allsop,  Prompter. 
"  CdU." 


54  STELLA. 

It  was  her  first  "  call"  to  the  theatre.  Until  now 
she  had  seemed  to  herself  to  be  moving  through 
some  exciting  dream  ;  but  this  bit  of  tangible  paper, 
which  she  could  touch  and  gaze  upon,  suddenly 
made  all  real.  Could  she  venture  to  a  rehearsal,  a 
first  rehearsal,  alone,  or  only  accompanied  by  Mat- 
tie  ?  Impossible !  True,  she  felt  confident  of  re- 
ceiving the  utmost  courtesy  from  the  actors,  —  Mr. 
Belton  was  so  kind  himself,  —  yet  the  presence  of  a 
friend  would  sustain  her.  Mr.  Oakland  must  be 
pressed  into  service. 

That  gentleman  received  her  request  with  undis- 
guised coldness.  His  scruples  were  not  easily  com- 
bated. He  had  wielded  the  critic's  pen  at  one 
period  of  his  life,  and  unsparingly  pointed  out  the 
shortcomings  of  certain  members  of  the  profession ; 
he  looked  for  resentment  from  those  who  were  not 
wise  enough  to  kiss  the  rod.  He  essayed  to  con- 
vince Stella  that  his  presence  could  not  serve  her 
within  the  circuit  of  any  Boston  theatre.  She  still 
pleaded  earnestly,  unanswerably ;  and  at  last  wrung 
from  him  a  slow  consent. 

The  hand  of  time  was  on  the  stroke  of  ten  when 
Mr.  Oakland,  the  next  morning,  conducted  her 
through  the  private  entrance  of  the  theatre  to  the 
dimly-lighted  stage.  From  many  theatres  the  outer 
light  is  wholly  excluded,  even  in  the  day-time,  and 
gas  usurps  the  place  of  sunshine.  But  in  this  the 
sunbeams  struggled  through  distant  windows,  often 
intercepted  by  detached  wings  of  scenery,  but  shed- 
ding light  sufficient  to  lift  the  gloom  out  of  positive 
darkness.  Gas  was  dispensed  with,  except  when 
the  sky  was  wholly  overcast. 


STELLA.  55 

Stella  glanced  wonderingly  at  the  bare  stage,  in- 
tersected by  tawdry  scenes,  on  which  dust  and  paint 
were  amicably  united;  the  mechanical  stage  auxil- 
iaries ;  the  dark-looking  pit ;  the  tiers  of  empty 
boxes,  fronted  with  dingy  devices.  What  glamour 
could  transform  this  dismal  region  to  the  realm  of 
enchantment  which  it  had  ever  appeared  to  her 
young  eyes  ?  What  magical  touch  could  invest 
these  terrene,  prosaic  surroundings  with  poetic  grace 
and  witchery  ?  How  many  illusions  melted  away 
as  she  stood,  transfixed,  mutely  gazing  on  the  un- 
sightly objects  that  environed  her  ! 

The  stage  was  unoccupied  when  they  entered.  A 
slender,  sallow-faced  young  man  now  appeared,  bear- 
ing a  table.  He  placed  it  on  the  right,  close  to  the 
foot-lights  (or  rather  to  the  semi-circular  range  which 
would  become  foot-lights  at  night).  This  individual 
bestowed  upon  Mr.  Oakland  and  his  pupil  a  few  fur- 
tive glances,  but  no  salutation.  He  laid  upon  the 
table  pens,  ink,  paper,  play-bills,  prompt-books,  and 
then  took  his  seat,  and  was  soon  busily  employed  in 
writing. 

"  Is  there  nobody  here  ?  "  whispered  Stella,  in  a 
tone  not  wholly  free  from  awe. 

"It  has  just  struck  ten,  and  actors  are  allowed 
ten  minutes'  grace,"  replied  Mr.  Oakland.  "  I  be- 
lieve they  generally  avail  themselves  of  the  extra 
moments.  Come  and  walk  with  me  up  and  down  the 
stage,  before  they  arrive  ;  you  must  get  accustomed 
to  its  length  and  breadth." 

Stella  had  never  found  it  so  difficult  to  command 
her  limbs.  She  half  stumbled,  and  clung  to  Mr. 
Oakland's  arm  for  support.    Her  fancy  peopled  those 


56  STELLA. 

vacant  boxes  with  cold,  critical  eyes,  that  froze  her 
blood,  paralyzed  her  faculties,  metamorphosed  her 
into  a  dull,  insensate  clod,  the  reflex  of  the  glaring 
shows  around  her. 

"  You  are  nervous,"  said  Mr.  Oakland,  with  con- 
cern. 

"A  little  —  not  very  —  that  is,  not  at  all;"  and 
she  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  rally. 

The  next  person  that  emerged  from  the  darkness 
behind  the  scenes  was  a  boy  about  eleven  years  old. 
His  consequential  bearing,  as  he  trod  the  stage, 
betrayed  that  he  already  aped  the  airs  of  self-import- 
ant manhood.  He  deliberately  scanned  Stella  and 
Mr.  Oakland,  without  removing  his  cap ;  then  with 
mock  solemnity  marched  to  the  prompter's  table. 
As  he  inspected  the  long  strip  of  paper  which  con- 
tained his  "  calls,"  the  words,"  Those  individuals  — 
novice — wonder  if  she's  got  anything  in  her?" 
were  uttered  in  one  of  those  convenient  stage  whis- 
pers which  are  intentionally  audible. 

Stella's  perturbation  momentarily  increased.  She 
began  to  feel  certain  that  she  would  be  guilty  of 
some  inexcusable  gaucherie. 

11  Make  your  call,  Fisk  ! "  sang  out  Mr.  Allsop, 
the  prompter,  as  loudly  as  though  the  boy  at  his 
side  were  stationed  at  some  invisible  distance. 

Master  Fisk  recrossed  the  stage,  giving  a  ludi- 
crous imitation  of  a  high-tragedy  gait  —  a  mode  of 
progression  which  requires  one  foot  to  be  placed  at 
the  greatest  possible  distance  in  advance  of  the 
other,  and  the  backward  foot  slowly  drawn  along  to 
meet  its  companion,  the  dragging  process  being 
scrupulously  repeated  at  each  step.      Fisk's  voice 


STELLA  .  5T 

was  then  heard  shouting  lustily  at  the  green-room 
door:  "First  act  of  Yirginius — Servius —  Cneius 
—  Virginius  —  all  the  Roman  citizens." 

The  call-boy  then  strutted  back  to  his  place  by  the 
prompter's  side,  —  "Virginius  and  Titus  not  come." 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Belton  appeared,  accompanied 
by  his  stage  manager,  Mr.  Finch.  He  greeted  Stella 
somewhat  stiffly  ;  his  manner  implied  that  he  had  no 
words  to  spare  —  all  must  be  business  now. 

Mr.  Finch  was  introduced.  Stella  presented  Mr. 
Oakland. 

Mr.  Belton  bowed  without  extending  his  hand. 
Mr.  Oakland  did  not  offer  his.  All  managers,  and 
almost  all  actors,  set  their  faces  against  the  intro- 
duction behind  the  scenes  of  persons  unconnected 
with  the  theatrical  profession.  Stella's  disregard  of 
this  prejudice  explained  Mr.  Belton's  unusually  chill- 
ing manner. 

Without  exchanging  another  word  with  Stella,  he 
turned  to  his  prompter.  "  Don't  rehearse  the  whole 
play,  Allsop.  We  only  want  the  Virginia  scenes  for 
this  young  lady.  Miss  Rosenvelt,  Mr.  Allsop  —  Mr. 
Allsop,  Miss  Rosenvelt." 

Mr.  Allsop  bowed  in  the  briefest  manner. 

"  As  Mr.  Tennent  is  not  here,  read  for  him,"  con- 
tinued the  manager.  "  Now,  my  dear,  your  entrance 
is  from  that  side." 

These  words  were  addressed  to  Stella.  The  famil- 
iar "  my  dear  "  caused  the  quick  blood  to  rush  to  her 
cheeks.  She  soon  learned  that  the  term  is  one  in 
such  constant  use  throughout  all  theatres  that  it  is 
rendered  meaningless  by  its  indiscriminate  appli- 
cation. 


58  STELLA. 

Mr.  Allsop  rose,  took  his  position  in  the  centre  of 
the  stage,  and  gave  the  cne,  "  Soft!  she  comes." 

Stella  grasped  the  side  scene  to  which  Mr.  Belton 
had  conducted  her ;  she  had  lost  all  other  power  of 
motion. 

"  Come  on,  if  you  please,  my  dear !  That 's  your 
cue,"  called  out  the  manager. 

Stella,  with  a  faltering  step,  advanced  towards  Mr. 
Allsop. 

"  Well,  father,  what 's  your  will  ?  "  was  uttered  in 
a  low,  quavering  tone. 

"  *  A  voice  soft,  gentle  and  low,  an  excellent  thing  in 
woman/  but  not  on  the  stage,"  remarked  Mr.  Belton. 
"  You  '11  have  to  speak  twenty  times  louder  than 
that  at  night ;  better  try  your  voice  in  the  morning. 
It 's  far  easier  speaking  in  an  empty  theatre  than  a 
full  one.  Lift  up  your  head,  and  throw  out  your 
words  as  though  you  were  talking  to  the  furthest 
man  in  the  gallery  yonder  ;  that 's  the  rule." 

Stella's  suffused  countenance  dropped  lower  and 
lower.  Several  members  of  the  company  had  gath- 
ered around  the  wings.  She  thought  she  read  deri- 
sion in  their  curious  eyes  ;  they  were  watching  her, 
to  detect  and  ridicule  her  insufficiencies.  Tongue- 
tied  by  confusion,  she  turned  with  a  supplicating 
look  to  Mr.  Oakland.  She  had  never  seen  his  face 
wear  such  a  distressed  expression. 

He  bowed  to  Mr.  Belton,  and  said,  "Excuse  me 
for  infringing  rules  ;  "  then  approached  Stella.  "  It 
is  not  yet  too  late,  Stella ;  you  can  withdraw  from 
this  ordeal.  Do  you  not  feel  that  you  are  not  qual- 
ified to  pass  through  it  triumphantly  ?  " 

That  humiliating  doubt  recalled  the  high-spirited 


STELLA  59 

girl  to  herself.  "  No  !  n  she  answered,  with  recov- 
ered firmness ;  and  then,  in  a  clear,  ringing  tone, 
repeated  the  first  words  of  her  part. 

"  Good  !  "  cried  Belton,  encouragingly ;  "  that  'a 
what  we  want." 

Allsop  read  the  eloquent  language  placed  in  the 
mouth  of  Virginius  as  though  he  were  stammering 
through  a  primer.  Stella  replied  as  Virginia.  But, 
though  she  delivered  every  line  as  set  down  in  the 
text,  she  made  but  a  futile  attempt  to  embody  the 
character.  The  words  she  articulated  lacked  ex- 
pression. The  business  air  with  which  the  manager 
surveyed  her,  the  prompter's  unmeaning  reading, 
the  disenchanting  locality,  hurled  Romance  from  her 
aerial  throne,  annihilated  all  poetic  inspiration,  and 
clogged  the  wings  of  Fancy  with  a  commonplace, 
matter-of-fact  heaviness.  As  she  varied  her  position 
on  the  stage,  and  made  her  exits  and  entrances,  ac- 
cording to  Mr.  Belton's  directions,  she  seemed  to 
herself  a  conscious  automaton,  deprived  of  reflection 
or  self-guidance.  Once  she  thought  she  heard  a 
slight  titter  at  the  wing,  doubtless  at  her  expense. 

Mr.  Belton  called  out,  in  a  commanding  tone, 
"  Order !  order  !  "  and  silence  was  restored. 

Dentatus  hobbled  upon  the  stage  with  the  assist- 
ance of  a  pair  of  crutches. 

"  Miss  Rosenvelt,  Mr.  Martin  —  Mr.  Martin,  Miss 
Rosenvelt,"  said  the  manager. 

Both  parties  bowed.  When  Virginius  and  Denta- 
tus exeunt,  Virginia  is  left  alone.  Stella  found  the 
soliloquy  which  she  was  then  required  to  deliver 
far  more  difficult  of  utterance  than  the  brief  replies 
to  her  father  and  Dentatus.     Mr.  Belton,  Mr.  Finch, 


60  STELLA. 

Mr.  Allsop,  Mr.  Oakland,  and  Fisk,  were  standing 
directly  in  front  of  her,  their  eyes  all  fastened  on 
her  countenance.  Her  memory  was  at  fault ;  Mr. 
Allsop  gave  her  the  word  ;  that  confused  her  more. 
She  stammered  in  the  endeavor  to  proceed.  He 
prompted  her  a  second  time  ;  and  now,  instead  of 
the  tender,  fervent  tone,  in  which  she  had  again  and 
again  rehearsed  that  very  passage  in  her  own  cham- 
ber, she  found  herself  repeating  the  words  after  the 
prompter,  with  a  parrot-like  intonation,  as  though 
she  had  never  heard  them  before,  and  had  no  com- 
prehension of  their  sense. 

Icilius  enters,  exclaiming,  "  Virginia  !  sweet  Vir- 
ginia !  " 

"Miss  Kosenvelt,  Mr.  Swain  —  Mr.  Swain,  Miss 
Rosenvelt,"  interrupted  Mr.  Belton. 

Icilius  paused  to  bow,  and  then  continued  :  "Sure, 
I  heard  my  name  pronounced,  etc.  etc." 

This  gentleman  belonged  to  that  numerous  class 
of  actors  who  consider  rehearsals  a  necessary  bore. 
He  gabbled  with  telegraphic  speed  over  the  lan- 
guage of  Icilius,  gliding  one  word  into  the  other, 
without  attempting  to  convey  any  meaning  by  the 
enigmatical  sounds.  Punctuation  was  wholly  ignored 
in  this  convenient  style  of  declamation.  How  could 
Stella  fancy  herself  the  beloved  Virginia  of  such  a 
nimble-tongued,  brainless  Icilius  ? 

The  act  ended ;  but  no  interval  is  allowed  at  re- 
hearsal. In  the  next  scene,  Virginius  betroths  his 
daughter  to  Icilius.  The  poetic  principle  with 
which  Stella's  whole  nature  was  deeply  imbued 
received  its  severest  shock  when  Allsop  droned  out 
the   beautiful   betrothing   speech  of  Virginius.      It 


STELLA.  61 

produced  the  same  jarring  sensation  as  a  succession 
of  false  notes  on  the  fine  ear  of  a  musician,  and  drew 
from  her  a  suppressed  groan.  The  love-making  of 
Icilius,  which  followed,  —  Icilius,  who  declares  him- 
self "  dissolved,  overpowered  with  the  munificence 
of  the  auspicious  hour/'  —  was  positively  laughable. 
Under  any  other  circumstances  Stella  could  not 
have  kept  her  countenance,  when  he  rattled  off  at 
full  speed  : 

"  0,  help  me  to  a  word  will  speak  my  bliss, 
Or  I  am  beggared  !     No  !  there  is  not  one  ! 
There  can  not  be  !  for  never  man  had  bliss 
Like  mine  to  name  !  " 

It  was  obeying  the  noble  Dane's  injunction  to  "  speak 
the  words  trippingly  on  the  tongue/'  with  an  origi- 
nal fidelity. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  scene,  Servia  is  sum- 
moned. 

"Miss  Rosenvelt,  Mrs.  Fairfax  —  Mrs.  Fairfax, 
Miss  Rosenvelt,"  said  Mr.  Belton. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  came  late,  and  missed  her  first  scene. 
At  Virginius'  charge  to  Servia  to  take  his  daughter 
in,  Mrs.  Fairfax  encircled  Stella's  waist  with  her 
arm.  The  touch  thrilled  through  the  trembling  girl, 
it  was  so  tender,  so  gentle.  Stella  looked  into  the 
stranger's  face.  It  was  one  of  the  most  benign  that 
goodness  and  intellect  ever  illumined. 

When  they  reached  the  wing,  Mrs.  Fairfax  re- 
marked, kindly,  "  How  cold  your  hands  are  !  Even 
through  your  gloves  they  feel  like  ice  !  It  must  be 
the  effect  of  nervous  excitement.  A  first  rehearsal 
is  very  trying  ;  but  you  will  soon  get  accustomed." 
6 


62  STELLA. 

What  music  were  those  words  to  the  ears  of  the 
downcast  girl !  The  heavenly  music  of  sympathy- 
descending  into  the  troubled  heart,  and  charming 
away  its  restless  throes. 

Stella  smiled  gratefully,  but  could  only  answer,  "  I 
am  a  little  —  a  little  nervous  —  and  you  are  very 
kind  ! " 

Mrs.  Fairfax  replied  by  chafing  the  cold  hands, 
and  warming  them  in  her  own. 

Virginia's  next  scene  is  very  brief.  She  crosses 
in  front  of  the  forum  with  Servia,  and  meets  Numi- 
torius. 

"Miss  Rosenvelt,  Mr.  Doran —  Mr.  Doran,  Miss 
Rosenvelt,"  said  Belton.     They  bowed. 

The  next  scene  is  in  Act  Third.  Claudius  drags 
Virginia  across  the  stage.  Of  course,  this  "busi- 
ness/7 as  it  is  theatrically  termed,  is  omitted  at 
rehearsal.  Virginia  meekly  walked  by  the  side  of 
Claudius,  having  been  duly  apprised  that  she  would 
be  dragged  at  night. 

"Miss  Rosenvelt,  Mr.  Conklin  —  Mr.  Conklin, 
Miss  Rosenvelt,"  said  the  punctilious  Mr.  Belton,  as 
Virginia  and  Claudius  met.  Virginia  is  supposed 
to  be  fainting,  and  does  not  speak  during  this 
scene. 

She  next  appears  in  the  Roman  Forum,  as  the  cap- 
tive of  Appius  ;  then  in  her  uncle's  house  ;  and  then, 
for  the  last  time,  before  the  tribunal.  There  she  is 
stabbed  by  her  father.  These  scenes  were  hurried 
through  in  a  formal,  business-like  way,  and  rehearsal 
ended. 

Stella  overheard  Fisk  remarking  to  the  prompter, 
in  an  oracular  tone,  "Can't  say  it's  a  bit  like  it! 


STELLA.  63 

Don't  think  there 's  anything  in  her  I  No  go  !  De- 
cidedly, no  go  !  " 

Mr.  Belton  made  no  comment  on  her  performance, 
as  he  bade  Stella  good-morning,  and  honored  Mr. 
Oakland  with  a  distant  bow. 

"  You  will  receive  the  call  for  Monday  ;  Mr.  Ten- 
nent  will,  of  course,  be  here,"  were  the  manager's 
parting  words. 

Stella  returned  home  thought-sick,  disheartened, 
overwhelmed  by  a  mental  and  bodily  lassitude  which 
she  had  never  experienced  before.  Mr.  Oakland 
made  not  the  slightest  attempt  to  reassure  her. 

Among  the  thronging  images  which  rose  up  like 
phantoms  to  torment  her,  there  was  but  one  she 
could  contemplate  without  a  shudder  —  the  mildly- 
beaming  face  of  Mrs.  Fairfax.  Was  this  the  com- 
mencement of  the  career  which  she  had  pictured  to 
herself  as  so  inspiring,  so  full  of  exhilarating  tri- 
umphs and  delights  ?  True,  she  had  encountered 
but  trifles  ;  these  were  mere  feathers  that  weighed 
thus  upon  her  spirit ;  but  they  were  "  feathers  of 
lead." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Morning  of  the  Debut.  —  Emotions  at  First  Sight  of  the  Pla- 
card.— The  Second  Rehearsal. —  Mr.  Tennent. — The  Great 
Tragedian's  Manifestations  of  Importance.  —  Friendly  Hints 
of  Mrs.  Fairfax.  —  Mr.  TennenVs  Disdain  of  the  Novice.  — 
The  Crushed  Hat.  —  Unconcern  of  the  Stage-Manager.  — 
The  Ballet- Girl  and  her  Brother,  the  Witless  Basket-Carrier. 

—  A  Sad  History.  —  Tlie  Ballet-GirVs  Devotion  to  a  Brutal- 
ized Father.  —  Unrest.  —  Heart- Sinkings.  —  Arrival  of  Per- 
dita  and  Florizel.  —  Perdita's  Effect  upon  Stella.  —  Chilling 
Gloom  of  a  Theatre  at  Twilight.  —  The  Star  Dressing-Room. 

—  The  Officious  Mrs.  Bunce.  —  The  Dresser's  Volunteered  In- 
formation. —  Her  Treatment  of  the  JYbvice.  —  Virginia's  Toi- 
let. —  A  Discussion.  —  Tender  Care  of  an  Experienced  and 
Compassionate  Actress.  —  Wanderings  behind  the  Scenes.  — 
Comfortless  Localities.  —  The  Green-Room.  —  Mr.  Martin, 
the  Rheumatic  Martyr.  —  Wonderful  Effects  of  Excitement 
upon  Physical  Ailments.  —  The  Prompter's  Seat.  —  Fisk's 
Humorous  Impertinence.  —  The  Surreptitious  Aperture  in  the 
Green  Curtain.  —  First  Peep  at  the  Audience.  —  Brief  Visit 
of  Mr.  Oakland. — First  Music. —  Second  Music. — Third 
Music.  —  Increasing  Terror  of  the  JVbvice.  —  Sudden  Diver- 
sion of  her  Thoughts.  —  Perdita  and  her  Father.  — Rising  of 
the  Curtain.  —  Sandalled  Feet  a  Moment  Visible.  —  Fisk's 
Enjoyment. — Change  of  Scene.  —  Actors  Pouring  from  the 
Green-Room. — The  Agonies  of  Stage  Fright.  —  Darkness  in 
Light. — The  Debut. — Churlish  Treatment  from  the  Repre- 
sentative of  Virginius.  —  Mechanical  Obedience  of  the  JYbvice. 
— Spell  Broken. — The  Soliloquy.  —  Stella's  Performance  of 
Virginia.  —  The  Manager's  Cautious  Comment. — The  Debu- 
tante's Return  Home. 

It  was  the  morning  of  Stella's  debut.      As  she 
drew  back  the  curtains  of  her  window,  the  sight  of 


STELLA.  65 

her  own  name,  in  huge  characters,  on  a  placard  oppo- 
site, sent  an  electric  shock  through  her  frame.  The 
novel  sensation  could  hardly  be  designated  as  pain, 
yet  it  would  be  mistermed  pleasure.  There  was  too 
much  incertitude,  too  much  thrilling  expectancy,  too 
many  turbulent  thoughts  contending  in  her  mind,  for 
the  sense  of  enjoyment  to  predominate.  She  had 
broken  the  thrall  of  tyrannous  custom,  she  had  tri- 
umphed over  all  opposition ;  and  yet  the  canker- 
worm  of  discontent  entered  her  breast,  and  blasted 
the  spring  blossoms  of  her  youth.  The  unrelaxed 
tension  of  her  nerves,  her  mental  unrest,  had 
quenched  the  sparkle  of  her  effervescing  spirits. 
Her  state  constantly  alternated  between  high  ex- 
citement and  an  oppressive  weariness. 

As  soon  as  her  determination  to  become  an  actress 
was  bruited  in  the  public  ear,  she  was,  of  course,  be- 
sieged by  the  remonstrances  of  friends.  But  their 
opinions  she  set  at  naught.  Her  independent  tone 
and  resolute  manner  silenced  exhortation.  To  her 
mother's  presence  no  one  gained  admission. 

Mr.  Oakland  declined  to  accompany  his  pupil  to 
her  second  rehearsal.  His  tenderness  towards  the 
unprotected  girl  had  induced  him  to  violate  a  prin- 
ciple, at  her  strong  entreaty,  but  he  saw  no  cause  to 
subject  himself  to  further  slight  without  being  of 
essential  service  to  her. 

The  clock  had  struck  its  tenth  warning  on  that 
eventful  day,  and  the  ten  minutes'  theatrical  grace 
had  expired,  before  Stella,  with  Mattie  at  her  side, 
once  more  entered  the  theatre.  They  found  the  com- 
pany already  assembled,  but  rehearsal  had  not  com- 
menced.    Everybody  awaited  the  appearance  of  the 


66  STELLA. 

great  tragedian.  Punctuality  would  have  been  de- 
rogatory to  the  dignity  of  Mr.  Tennent.  To  cause 
his  co-laborers  as  much  annoyance  as  possible  was 
to  impress  them  with  a  due  sense  of  his  own  import- 
ance. 

Mr.  Belton  saluted  Stella  more  cordially  than  on 
a  previous  occasion.  He  was  gratified  to  find  that 
Mr.  Oakland's  presence  was  not  considered  indis- 
pensable. Fisk  bestowed  on  her  a  familiar  nod. 
The  stage-manager  and  actors  curtailed  their  civili- 
ties to  the  utmost  brevity.  The  profession  never  pay 
homage  in  anticipation.  Miss  Rosenvelt's  assumed 
position  in  the  theatre  as  yet  lacked  the  stamp  of 
public  recognition.  All  novices  are  looked  upon  as 
pretenders  until  success  proclaims  their  legitimacy. 

Mr.  Belton  chanced  to  be  called  away.  Stella  was 
left  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  beside  Mattie, 
looking  wretchedly  uncomfortable  and  out  of  place. 

Mrs.  Fairfax,  who  had  just  entered,  joined  her  at 
once,  and  ordered  Fisk  to  bring  a  chair. 

"You  will  learn  the  ways  of  a  theatre,  little  by 
little,  my  dear.  Every  one  feels  strange  at  first." 
She  placed  the  chair  beside  the  manager's  table. 
"  You  can  sit  here  or  in  the  green-room,  just  as  you 
please.  It  is  the  privilege  of  stars  to  take  their  seat 
on  the  stage  and  watch  the  rehearsal.  The  rest 
of  the  company  are  not  allowed  this  liberty.  How 
flushed  you  look  !  Will  you  not  be  more  comforta- 
ble if  you  lay  aside  your  bonnet  ?  You  will  rehearse 
better." 

Stella  willingly  removed  her  hat,  for  even  its  light 
weight  seemed  to  press  painfully  on  her  throbbing 
brain. 


STELLA.  6t 

Mrs.  Fairfax  hinted  that  Mattie  had  better  keep  a 
little  more  in  the  background.  She  might  subject 
herself  to  reproof  from  the  austere  stage-manager. 
Mattie,  at  a  word,  retreated  behind  the  scenes.  But 
her  honest,  anxious  face  was  constantly  visible, 
peeping  round  one  of  the  wings,  and  watching 
Stella. 

After  half  an  hour's  delay,  Mr.  Tennent  made  a 
pompous  entrance.  The  stage  echoed  with  his  heavy 
tread.  His  deep,  sonorous  voice,  as  he  issued  some 
despotic  orders,  his  imperious  bearing,  his  athletic 
frame,  cast  in  one  of  nature's  rudest  moulds,  inspired 
Stella  with  a  feeling  akin  to  awe. 

Mr.  Belton  presented  him. 

"  Sorry  you  've  got  me  a  novice  !  Detest  acting 
with  amateurs!"  was  his  audible  observation,  as  he 
eyed  the  young  girl  with  supercilious  scrutiny. 
"Poor  Lydia !  we  shan't  soon  see  her  match 
again."  He  turned  on  his  heel  without  addressing 
a  single  syllable  to  the  discomfited  novice. 

**  And  he  is  to  enact  Virginius  !  "  thought  Stella 
to  herself.  "  How  will  I  ever  imagine  myself  his 
daughter  ?  If  he  had  only  spoken  one  word  to  me, 
it  would  make  such  a  difference  !  " 

Kehearsal  commenced.  To  Stella's  great  surprise, 
Mr.  Tennent  rattled  over  the  language  of  his  role  in 
the  same  senseless  manner  as  the  other  actors,  paus- 
ing now  and  then  to  explain  his  particular  "busi- 
ness," and  ejaculating  "  Brute  !  "  in  an  under-tone, 
every  time  some  unfortunate  individual  failed  to 
comprehend  him. 

Stella  summoned  all  her  energy,  and  successfully 
assumed  a  bearing  which  might  have  been  mistaken 


68  STELLA. 

for  composure.  She  went  through  her  allotted  duties 
without  hesitation,  and  apparently  undismayed. 
Mrs.  Fairfax  congratulated  her  on  her  newly-ac- 
quired self-possession.  Mr.  Tennent  occasionally 
instructed  her  in  "business,"  but  without  unbend- 
ing from  his  stately  demeanor. 

As  Virginia  is  seen  no  more  after  the  fourth  act, 
Stella  was  at  liberty  to  absent  herself  before  re- 
hearsal concluded.  She  returned  to  the  chair  upon 
which  she  had  placed  her  bonnet.  Mr.  Finch  was  un- 
consciously sitting  upon  both.  He  laughed  uncon- 
cernedly, and  made  a  clumsy  attempt  to  pull  the  hat 
into  shape,  but  uttered  no  apology.  Then,  thrusting 
it  into  her  extended  hand,  he  said  : 

"  No  use  of  crying  over  spilled  milk !  If  you  don't 
put  your  foot  in  it  to-night,  and  make  a  failure,  you 
can  afford  to  buy  yourself  twice  as  fine  a  kickshaw 
as  this." 

Stella's  mind  was  too  much  engrossed  to  dwell 
upon  trifles,  but  she  recoiled  from  contact  with 
coarse  natures.  It  was  less  mortification  to  be  forced 
to  wear  the  damaged  hat  through  the  streets  than 
to  be  treated  with  such  rude  indifference. 

She  was  passing  out  behind  the  scenes,  when  Mrs. 
Fairfax  once  more  joined  her. 

"  Call  upon  me  for  any  assistance  you  may  need 
this  evening.  You  will,  of  course,  have  the  '  star 
dressing-room.'  The  luxury  of  an  apartment  to 
one's  self  is  reserved  for  stars  only.  The  room 
in  which  I  dress,  with  four  other  ladies,  adjoins 
yours.  You  had  better  come  early,  —  at  least  an 
hour  and  a  half  before  the  curtain  rises,  —  so  that  you 
can  walk  about,  after  you  are  dressed,  and  collect 


STELLA.  69 

your  thoughts.  Don't  forget  that  I  will  assist  you 
with  pleasure. " 

Mrs.  Fairfax's  partiality  for  her  profession,  as  well 
as  her  native  kindness  of  heart,  interested  her  in  a 
novice  who  apparently  possessed  histrionic  qualifi- 
cations of  a  rare  order.  The  compassionate  actress 
stretched  out  a  loving  hand  to  this  young  girl,  whose 
uncertain  feet  were  forcing  their  way  within  the 
briery  circle  which  bounded  that  miniature  world,  a 
theatre. 

Stella  was  thanking  her  new  friend  with  much 
warmth,  when  a  ballet-girl  timidly  approached.  Her 
face  was  grief-worn  and  sickly,  but  of  touching 
loveliness.  Oppression  looked  out  from  her  meek 
eyes.  Her  coarse  and  insufficient  garb  betokened 
penury.  Her  attenuated  fingers  were  rapidly  knit- 
ting lace,  and  her  needles  never  ceased  their  motion 
as  she  spoke. 

"  May  Floy  carry  your  basket,  miss  ?  w 

"My  basket?7' 

"  The  basket  with  your  dresses.  Floy  carries  all 
the  baskets." 

Stella  looked  inquiringly  at  Mrs.  Fairfax. 

"  You  should  have  a  basket  for  your  costumes.  A 
basket  is  lighter  and  more  convenient  than  a  trunk. 
This  is  Floy's  sister.  He  takes  charge  of  all  our 
baskets.  Poor  fellow  !  we  ought  to  help  him  as  much 
as  we  can."  She  added,  in  an  under-tone,  "  The 
unfortunate  boy  is  half-witted,  but  very  honest." 

"Mattie  shall  purchase  me  a  basket.  Let  your 
brother  call  for  it,  by  all  means,"  said  Stella. 

"  And  tell  him  to  be  sure  to  call  early,  Perdita," 
added  Mrs.  Fairfax. 


TO  STELLA. 

"  0,  never  fear !  Thank  you,  kindly,  Miss  Rosen- 
vert."  Still  knitting  as  she  walked  away,  Perdita 
returned  to  the  green-room. 

"  That  poor  girl's  history  is  a  sad  one,"  said  Mrs. 
Fairfax  ;  "but,  alas  !  there  is  an  abundance  of  sad 
histories  in  all  theatres.  Her  father  is  now  the 
captain  of  the  supernumeraries.  I  suppose  you 
hardly  know  what  that  means.  The  captain  is  a 
sort  of  leader  who  directs  and  drills  the  sups.  His 
grade  in  the  theatre,  as  you  may  imagine,  is  rather 
low;  yet  I  remember  him  a  handsome,  ambitious, 
promising  actor.  But  he  was  unfortunate,  or,  rather, 
he  imagined.himself  unlucky,  and  was  possessed  with 
the  idea  that  all  the  world  conspired  against  him. 
He  said  that  he  was  always  kept  down  in  every 
theatre  where  he  engaged ;  that  managers  never 
afforded  him  an  opportunity  of  exhibiting  the  talents 
he  was  confident  of  possessing.  A  man  of  violent  pas- 
sions, he  was  constantly  falling  into  disgrace  by  his 
disputes  with  his  fellow-actors.  He  was  discharged 
from  theatre  after  theatre.  He  became  dispirited, 
morose,  and  finally  abandoned  himself  to  the  control 
of  the  demon  Intemperance.  Intoxication  was  nightly 
1  the  prologue  to  his  sleep.7  His  wife  was  second 
walking  lady  in  this  theatre  ;  a  gentle,  inoffensive 
being,  most  unfitly  mated.  She  died  a  few  years 
ago,  leaving  two  children,  —  Perdita,  and  Florizel. 
So  the  mother  called  them,  after  her  favorite  charac- 
ters in  Shakspeare's  '  Winter's  Tale.'  One  day,  the 
father,  in  a  paroxysm  of  ungovernable  rage,  locked  up 
little  Floy  in  a  dark  cellar.  The  child  was  left  shriek- 
ing with  terror,  while  the  father  lost  all  remembrance 
at  the  neighboring  tavern.    He  returned  at  midnight, 


STELLA.  71 

and  found  poor  Perdita  sitting  outside  of  the  cellar- 
door,  moaning  and  weeping,  and  calling  to  her 
brother,  whom  she  believed  to  be  dead.  The  father, 
suddenly  sobered  by  his  alarm,  drew  the  key  from 
his  pocket,  and  opened  the  door.  The  boy  was  dis- 
covered sitting  on  the  ground,  staring  wildly  at  one 
corner,  his  teeth  chattering,  as  he  pointed  with  his 
fingers,  and  used  frantic  gesticulations.  Prolonged 
fear  had  unsettled  his  mind.  Ever  since  he  has  been 
what  people  call  half-witted. 

"  Perdita,  though  she  is  only  four  years  older,  has 
tended  him  with  all  a  mother's  devotion.  Over  her 
father,  too,  she  exerts  a  more  powerful  influence  than 
any  one  else.  She  belongs  to  the  corps  de  ballet 
here,  but  the  poor  child  works  night  and  day  with  her 
needle  to  support  the  family.  The  boy  has  just 
sense  enough  to  be  taught  to  carry  baskets  to  and 
fro.  At  first  Perdita  always  accompanied  him,  when 
he  received  the  baskets  and  delivered  them.  Not  a 
few  weary  journeys  did  that  brave  girl  take  daily. 
By  and  by,  she  earned  by  her  knitting,  and  sewing, 
and  flower-making,  sufficient  money  to  buy  Floy  a 
wheelbarrow.  She  has  now  so  thoroughly  taught 
him  the  way  to  all  the  residences  of  the  actors,  that 
he  goes  for  the  baskets  every  night  by  himself,  and 
takes  them  home  again  after  the  play.  He  never 
makes  a  mistake." 

H  And  is  the  father  still  intemperate  ? M  asked 
Stella. 

"  Hopelessly  so,  I  fear.  That  evil  spirit,  Perdita, 
angel  as  she  is,  cannot  exorcise.  He  is  tortured  by 
remorse,  and  drinks  to  drown  all  recollection  of  the 
injury  he  has  inflicted  on  his  child.      You  will  see 


72  STELLA. 

him  at  night.  Perdita  is  always  watching  over  and 
helping  him.  But  for  her,  he  would  never  be  ready 
to  go  upon  the  stage  at  the  right  moment ;  he  could 
not  be  depended  upon,  and  would  have  been  dis- 
missed long  ago.  But  what  a  time  I  have  spent 
gossiping  over  this  romance  of  real  life !  I  must 
say  good-by  until  to-night.  Keep  up  a  brave  heart, 
and  success  to  you  !  " 

"  Good-by.  I  feel  more  like  success  than  I  did  on 
Saturday." 

"  How  much  heavier  are  that  poor  girPs  trials 
than  mine ! "  mused  Stella,  as  she  slowly  walked 
home.  "  What  could  have  revealed  to  me  the  blessed- 
ness of  my  own  lot  so  forcibly  as  contrast  with  this 
greater  sufferer !  " 

The  afternoon  was  one  of  long  expectancy  to 
Stella.  The  thoughtful  Mattie  had  persuaded  her  to 
lie  down ;  but  she  tossed  uneasily  on  her  pillow, 
finding  no  repose.  Every  few  minutes  she  turned  to 
the  clock  ;  there  was  surely  some  clog  upon  its 
hands,  they  moved  so  slowly.  0,  that  the  night  had 
come  and  had  passed  !  Then,  as  the  longed-for  time 
drew  near,  suddenly  she  grew  sick  at  heart,  and  was 
seized  with  faintness.  The  thought  flashed  through 
her  mind  that  she  would  fail  at  the  last  moment ; 
that  she  lacked  strength  to  carry  the  burden  which 
she  had  lifted  upon  her  own  shoulders  with  such 
headstrong  will. 

Half-past  seven  was  the  hour  at  which  the  curtain 
must  rise.  She  had  been  apprised  that  Mr.  Belton 
enforced  the  strictest  punctuality  at  night.  Even 
when  stars  of  first  magnitude  solicited  a  few 
moments'  delay,  it  was  denied.     Mrs.  Fairfax  had 


STELLA.  ?3 

cautioned  her  to  be  at  the  theatre  in  ample  time. 
It  wanted  but  a  quarter  of  six. 

A  knock  at  the  door.  The  pale-faced  Perdita  stood 
without;  She  was  accompanied  by  a  tall,  ungainly 
stripling.  The  extreme  sharpness  of  his  counte- 
nance reminded  Stella  of  the  " profile"  shows  she 
had  that  morning  seen  scattered  about  the  stage. 
His  large  projecting  eyes,  of  faintest  blue,  seemed 
starting  from  their  sockets.  His  nether  limbs  bore  a 
strong  resemblance  to  a  pair  of  compasses,  and  his 
long,  lank  arms  reached  below  his  knees.  His  mouth 
remained  open  with  an  expression  of  silly  wonder. 
When  he  caught  Stella's  eye,  he  shook  his  head, 
agitating  a  profusion  of  straight,  tow-colored  locks, 
and  chuckled  and  laughed,  as  child  does  with  child 
when  they  are  bent  upon  some  forbidden  frolic. 

"  I  have  brought  my  brother/7  said  Perdita,  ad- 
vancing into  the  room.  "He  has  come  for  the  basket. 
I  show  him  the  way  the  first  time  he  goes  to  a  strange 
place.     He  always  remembers  it  after  that." 

The  serene,  sweet  face  of  that  hifmble  girl,  who 
had  passed  calmly  through  such  soul-harrowing  trials, 
who  faithfully  performed  so  many  difficult  duties,  had 
more  effect  in  composing  Stella's  excited  nerves 
than  all  the  hartshorn  and  sal-volatile  which  Mattie 
solicitously  administered. 

The  basket  was  already  packed.  Mattie  strapped 
the  cover  with  leathern  girths,  and  Floy  delightedly 
received  his  new  burden. 

Stella's  adieu  to  her  mother  was  very  brief.  She 
only  trusted  herself  to  say,  "  I  hope  I  shall  bring 
you  good  news,  mother ;  and  the  promise  of  laurels 
hereafter,  even  if  I  win  none  to-night." 


H  STELLA. 

She  was  equally  surprised  and  gratified  when  her 
mother  asked  for  a  copy  of  Virginius  to  peruse  in 
her  daughter's  absence. 

Mattie,  who  was  now  and  then  a  little  tyrannical, 
had  persisted  in  ordering  a  carriage,  though  Stella 
declared  herself  quite  able  to  walk.  Soon  after  six, 
they  were  driving  to  the  theatre.  They  presented 
themselves  at  the  stage-door  just  as  Perdita  and 
Floy  arrived  with  the  basket.  The  door-keeper 
brusquely  questioned  Stella  as  to  her  identity  before 
he  admitted  them. 

The  dreary  gloominess  of  a  theatre  behind  the 
scenes,  when  twilight  is  chasing  the  oukspent  day, 
must  be  seen  and  felt  to  be  fully  comprehended.  The 
desolate  cheerlessness  of  the  place  has  struck  a  chill 
to  the  heart  of  many  a  novice.  The  crowded  scenery 
looks  rougher  and  dingier ;  the  painted  tenements, 
groves,  gardens,  streets,  more  grotesque  ;  the  num- 
berless stage  anomalies  more  glaringly  absurd. 

The  sea-weed  floating  on  the  waves  in  feathery 
sprays  of  brilliant  red  and  vivid  green,  that,  seized 
for  closer  scanning,  turns  to  an  unsightly,  shapeless 
mass,  fitly  typifies  the  stage  in  its  resplendent  wiz- 
ard-robe of  night  enchantment,  and  its  unideal,  lugu- 
brious daytime  garb. 

"Where  am  I  to  go  ?  "  Stella  inquired  of  Perdita. 

u  The  dresser,  Mrs.  Bunce,  has  not  come  yet, 
and  the  gas  will  not  be  turned  on  until  half-past  six. 
Mr.  Belton  only  allows  it  to  be  lighted  for  one  hour 
before  the  curtain  rises  ;  but,  if  you  please,  I  can 
show  you  the  star  dressing-room." 

Perdita  led  the  way  up  a  long  flight  of  stairs,  then 
through  a  narrow  entry,  or,  rather,  gallery.    On  one 


STELLA.  75 

side  appeared  a  row  of  small  doors,  very  like  those 
of  a  bathing-machine.  They  opened  into  the  rooms 
of  the  ladies  of  the  company.  A  wooden  railing  ex- 
tended on  the  other  side.  To  any  one  who  leaned 
over  this  rude  balcony  the  larger  portion  of  the 
stage  became  visible.  Five  or  six  persons  were 
often  crowded  into  one  dressing-room.  The  apart- 
ments were  portioned  off  into  set  spaces,  and  every 
cramped  division  labelled  with  a  name.  The  room 
at  the  end  of  the  gallery  was  appropriated  solely  to 
the  lady  "star."  The  dressing-rooms  devoted  to 
the  use  of  gentlemen  were  located  beneath  the  stage. 

Perdita  opened  the  door  of  this  modern  "  star- 
chamber."  The  apartment  was  very  small,  the  at- 
mosphere suffocatingly  close.  Mattie  at  once  threw 
up  the  tiny,  cobweb-draped  window.  A  shelf  ran 
along  one  side  of  the  wall,  after  the  manner  of  a 
kitchen  dresser.  In  front  lay  a  narrow  strip  of  baize  ; 
the  rest  of  the  floor  was  bare.  On  the  centre  of  the 
shelf  stood  a  cracked  mirror.  A  gas-branch  jutted 
out  on  either  side.  Two  very  rickety  chairs,  a  crazy 
washstand,  a  diminutive  stove,  constituted  the  furni- 
ture of  the  apartment.  In  this  unseemly  chrysalis- 
shell  the  butterflies  of  the  stage  received  their  wings. 
Little  did  the  audience,  who  greeted  some  queen-like 
favorite,  sumptuously  attired  in  broidered  velvet  and 
glittering  with  jewels,  imagine  that  such  was  the 
palace-bower  from  which  she  issued ! 

The  year  had  just  ushered  in  its  most  wayward 
child,  smiling,  frowning  April.  Frowns  thus  far  pre- 
dominated ;  the  unsunned  air  had  all  the  searching 
bleakness  of  March.     Mattie  threw  her  own  shawl 


T6  STELLA. 

over  her  shivering  charge,  and  examined  the  un- 
lighted  stove. 

"  Set  down  the  basket,  Floy,  and  run  for  a  match," 
said  Perdita. 

The  boy,  as  he  removed  the  basket  from  his  shoul- 
der, looked  at  Stella  with  evident  admiration,  winked 
at  her,  chuckled  again,  and  ran  down  the  stair.  He 
was  strongly  attracted  by  this  new  face.  He  com- 
prehended that  something  was  going  on  which  prin- 
cipally concerned  its  possessor  j  but  what  it  was  he 
could  not  have  defined. 

Floy  returned  with  the  match,  and  Mattie  was 
lighting  the  fire  which  she  found  prepared  for  kin- 
dling, when  Perdita  whispered,  "  Here  comes  Mrs. 
Bunce  !  '-  and  hurried  away  with  her  brother,  appa- 
rently awed  by  the  approach  of  some  august  per- 
sonage. 

Mrs.  Bunce,  a  portly,  middle-aged  woman,  now 
bustled  in.  What  a  voice  that  Mrs.  Bunce  had  !  It 
was  so  shrill  that,  when  she  spoke,  Stella  almost  fan- 
cied her  ears  were  suddenly  pierced  by  a  sharp  in- 
strument. All  Mrs.  Bunce's  words  were  darted  out 
with  amazing  rapidity. 

"  Here  in  time,  eh  ?  That 's  a  good  sign  for  a 
novice.  This  is  the  young  lady,  I  suppose,"  exam- 
ining Stella.  "  Quite  a  stage  face.  How  do  you  do, 
my  dear?     This  is  your  maid,  I  presume  ? M 

"  Her  maid,  or  her  nurse,  or  her  costumer,  or  any- 
thing she  is  pleased  to  want,"  replied  Mattie,  with 
dignity. 

"  Ah !  that 's  well.  No  doubt  a  very  serviceable 
person.  So  you  Ve  set  the  fire  going  ?  That 's  a 
pity !     You  may  be  smoked  out  soon  ;  all  the  stoves 


STELLA.  7t 

here  smoke  when  the  wind  's  contrary.  Out  with 
the  dresses  1  Hang  them  up  on  those  nails.  Her 
toilet  things  go  here.  Never  been  on  the  stage  be- 
fore, miss  ?  It 's  a  trying  thing  for  beginners.  I  've 
seen  hundreds  of  debuts  in  my  day.  Most  of  the 
young  ones  think  a  deal  of  themselves  until  they  get 
before  the  lights ;  then  they  find  out  what  they  're 
made  of.  Not  one  in  fifty  succeeds.  Hope  you  're 
not  scared  ?  Don't  show  it  to  the  audience,  or 
they  '11  think  it  good  fun.  They  always  laugh  at 
the  fright  of  novices  ;  you  know  it  makes  the  poor, 
simple  things  look  so  ridiculously  awkward  !  Here, 
Jerry,"  calling  over  the  gallery  to  the  gas-lighter, 
"  if  you  can't  light  up  that  gas  yet,  give  us  a  candle, 
will  you  ?  The  young  person  is  a  novice,  and  I  may 
have  trouble  dressing  her." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Bunce,"  Stella  ventured  to  say  ; 
"but  Mattie  has  been  accustomed  to  dress  me." 

u  Yes,  that  I  have,  ever  since  she  was  that  high  !  " 
added  Mattie,  affectionately,  and  designating  with 
her  hand  a  stature  of  some  few  inches. 

"  Ah !  I  dare  say,  but  not  for  the  stage.  Mr.  Bel- 
ton  depends  upon  me  to  look  after  the  novices  on 
their  first  night,  and  see  that  they  don't  disfigure 
themselves." 

Mattie,  when  her  legitimate  office  was  thus  per- 
emptorily snatched  from  her  hands,  looked  like  a 
suppressed  thunder-gust ;  but,  considerate  even  in 
her  wrath,  she  feared  to  distress  Stella  by  remon- 
strating. Not  without  difficulty,  she  controlled  a 
strong  temptation  to  forcibly  eject  Mrs.  Bunce  from 
the  apartment. 

As  Mattie  opened  the  basket,  Mrs.  Bunce  seized 
7 


IS  .  STELLA. 

upon  the  contents,  and  dragged  them  to  light  with- 
out ceremony. 

"  White  merino  :  that 's  right.  Has  it  got  a 
sweep  ?  Not  too  long,  I  hope  ;  if  she  's  awkward, 
she  '11  trip.  Those  folds  are  too  small  for  a  Roman 
dress.  She  has  such  a  wisp  of  a  figure,  she  could 
wear  loose  folds,  which  are  more  correct.  Where  's 
your  key  border  ?  " 

"  Key  border?  "  asked  Stella. 

"  Yes,  round  the  bottom  of  the  dress  ;  it's  Roman. 
We  always  dress  our  Virginias  with  key-border  trim- 
ming." 

"  I  like  the  dress  better  without.  Virginia's  char- 
acter is  marked  by  so  much  girlish  simplicity  that 
her  attire  should  be  unadorned." 

"0,  very  well !  It  's  no  great  matter ;  you  are 
not  expected  to  know  much  about  it  as  yet." 

Mrs.  Bunce  chattered  on  without  pause,  while 
Stella  commenced  her  toilet.  The  busy  fingers  of 
the  dresser  made  several  desperate  attempts  to  assist 
in  the  arrangement  of  the  novice's  hair;  but  this 
Stella  would  not  allow.  She  folded  back  the  waving, 
golden-tinted  tresses  from  her  pure  brow,  gathered 
them  in  a  classic  knot,  and  encircled  her  head  with 
a  white  fillet.  A  stray  lock  here  and  there  escaped 
its  bonds,  and  was  permitted  to  curl  down  her  finely- 
curved  throat. 

The  gas  was  by  this  time  lighted.  '  Stella  was  just 
receiving  her  dress  from  the  hands  of  Mattie.  Mrs. 
Bunce  snatched  it  away. 

"  Wait,  wait  a  bit !  "  said  she.  "  Where  's  your 
paint  and  your  powder  ?  —  but  you  're  white  enough 
without  powdering — where  's  your  rouge?  " 


STELLA.  *J9 

"  I  have  none.  There  is  nothing  in  the  poet's  de- 
scription of  Virginia  to  make  one  suppose  that  she 
was  particularly  ruddy ;  besides,  excitement  has 
given  me  too  much  color  already." 

M  Does  very  well  now,  but  it  can't  be  depended 
upon  like  rouge.  It  won't  last  when  you  're  fright- 
ened out  of  your  wits,  that 's  the  mischief.  Better 
let  me  borrow  some  rouge  from  the  ladies." 

"  No,  I  would  rather  not.  I  don't  see  the  neces- 
sity." 

Mrs.  Bunce  persisted ;  Stella  refused. 

u  0,  of  course  you  can  do  just  as  you  please," 
said  the  officious  dresser,  in  an  irate  tone. 

"  I  always  do,"  replied  Stella,  quietly. 

Stella's  Roman  toilet  was  completed.  Even  the 
critical  Mrs.  Bunce  was  forced  to  confess  herself 
satisfied  with  the  young  debutante's  appearance  ;  it 
was  so  chastely  classic,  so  befitting  the  patrician 
maiden,  so  indicative  of  vestal  purity. 

It  wanted  more  than  half  an  hour  of  the  rising  of 
the  curtain.  The  small  stove  had  been  gradually 
sending  out  thin  wreaths  of  smoke.  The  atmosphere 
was  becoming  unendurable,  as  Stella's  smarting  eyes 
and  irritated  lungs  began  to  testify. 

"  I  shall  have  neither  sight  nor  voice,  if  I  am  shut 
up  here  any  longer,"  thought  she,  "  and  this  chat- 
tering woman  will  drive  my  part  quite  out  of  my 
head." 

Then  she  remembered  the  kind  offer  of  Mrs.  Fair- 
fax, and  requested  Mrs.  Bunce  to  see  if  she  were 
dressed.  In  the  Roman  matron  who  returned  with 
the  messenger  Stella  hardly  recognized  her  friend ; 


80  STELLA. 

the  make  up  of  the  practised  actress  was  so  elabo- 
rate, so  striking,  so  full  of  character. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  shook  hands,  and  held  the  novice  at 
arm's  length  with  a  look  of  unmistakable  pleasure  ; 
then  retouched  Stella's  dress,  disposed  a  fold  here 
and  there  with  more  statuesque  grace,  and  said,  affec- 
tionately, 

I  I  have  seen  at  last  my  beau  ideal  of  Virginia ! 
I  hope  you  feel  quite  collected  ?  " 

"  Tolerably  ;  but  this  room  is  so  close,  the  smoke 
chokes  me.     Might  we  not  go  down  ?  " 

II  Certainly.  Come,  and  I  will  show  you  the  green- 
room, and  teach  you  your  way  behind  the  scenes ; 
that  will  help  wear  off  the  newness." 

Mattie  followed,  carefully  protecting  from  contact 
with  the  ground  Virginia's  spotless  vesture.  To 
Stella's  great  relief,  Mrs.  Bunce  remained  behind. 

"  This  is  the  green-room,"  said  Mrs.  Fairfax. 

Stella  looked  in  curiously.  It  was  a  long,  narrow 
apartment.  At  one  end  sofas,  throne-chairs,  and 
other  stately  seats  for  stage  use,  stood  crowded  to- 
gether. On  either  side  of  the  wall  a  cushioned  bench 
was  secured,  the  only  article  of  stationary  furniture, 
except  the  full-length  mirror.  On  this  bench  lay  an 
actor  in  Roman  apparel.  Stella's  uninitiated  eye 
failed  to  detect  that  he  was  indebted  to  art  for  his 
white  locks  and  venerable  aspect.  He  appeared  to 
be  studying,  but  every  now  and  then  gave  vent  to 
an  uneasy  groan. 

"  That  is  Dentatus  —  Mr.  Martin.  Don't  you  rec- 
ognize him?"  inquired  Mrs.  Fairfax.  "He  is  a 
martyr  to  inflammatory  rheumatism,  and  can  scarcely 


STELLA.  81 

stand.  He  has  suffered  for  years,  and  finds  no  re- 
lief 

Stella  called  to  mind  the  gentleman  on  crutches 
whom  she  had  seen  at  rehearsal. 

"  But  how  can  he  act  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  That  is  one  of  the  stage  mysteries  which  it  re- 
quires some  wisdom  to  solve.  You  will  see  him, 
when  he  is  called,  hobble  with  his  crutches  to  the 
wing,  groaning  at  every  step,  and  really  suffering, 
there  is  no  doubt  about  that ;  but,  the  instant  his  cue 
is  spoken,  his  crutches  will  very  likely  be  flung  at 
Fisk's  head,  and,  lo  !  Dentatus  walks  on  the  stage, 
erect  and  firm  as  though  he  had  never  known  an 
ache.  He  is  a  great  favorite  with  the  audience,  and 
generally  manages  to  keep  them  convulsed  with 
laughter,  though  he  never  ceases  complaining  and 
groaning  himself,  when  he  is  out  of  their  presence. n 

Two  other  Romans  were  walking  up  and  down  the 
green-room,  repeating  their  parts  in  a  low  tone.  At 
the  further  end,  where  the  sofas  and  chairs  were 
huddled  together,  sat  a  group  of  girls  in  Roman  cos- 
tume. Stella  recognized  Perdita  among  them.  She 
was  knitting  lace  with  a  rapidity  positively  won- 
derful. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  next  conducted  Stella  to  the  prompt- 
er's nook  on  the  right  of  the  stage.  There  Mr.  Finch 
sat,  arranging  his  prompt-book,  and  Fisk  was  going 
through  a  series  of  hidicrous  antics  at  his  side. 

The  latter  nodded  to  Stella,  and  inquired,  patron- 
izingly, "  How  d'  ye  do  ?     How  do  you  feel  now?" 

Mrs.  Fairfax  checked  him  by  a  light  box  on  the 
ear,  and  led  Stella  to  the  stage.      It  was   covered 


82  STELLA. 

with  green  baize  ;  the  scene  was  set  for  a  street  in 
Rome. 

"  Come  and  take  your  first  look  at  the  audience," 
said  her  cicerone,  pointing  out  a  small  aperture  that 
had  been  surreptitiously  made  in  the  green  curtain. 
They  looked  through,  and  saw  the  boxes,  pit,  and 
gallery,  rapidly  filling. 

At  this  moment,  Floy  glided  up  to  Stella,  rubbing 
his*  bony  hands.  "  Such  a  house  !  such  a  house  !  " 
he  exclaimed,  and  then  darted  away  again. 

Stella's  heart  began  to  leap  as  though  it  would 
bound  into  her  throat,  as  she  caught  sight  of  the 
thronged  audience. 

"  You  won't  mind  them,  when  you  are  once  en- 
grossed in  your  part,"  said  Mrs.  Fairfax,  noticing 
her  sudden  trepidation.  "  Never  think  of  an  audi- 
ence, if  you  can  help  it." 

They  walked  up  and  down  behind  the  scenes. 
Stella  remarked  the  broken  windows,  the  open  doors 
through  which  rushed  strong  currents  of  cold  air, 
the  dilapidated  condition  of  the  walls,  and  wondered 
at  the  comfortlessness  of  the  place. 

"  It  ;s  the  same  in  all  theatres,  my  dear.  I  never 
knew  a  manager  yet  who  thought  it  necessary  to 
render  the  members  of  his  company  comfortable 
behind  the  scenes.  Those  windows  have  been  broken 
all  winter.  Nobody  ever  dreams  of  having  them 
mended.  A  good  many  of  us  have  nearly  perished 
in  our  light  clothing.  But  I  dare  say  we  get  accus- 
tomed to  it ;  and,  on  the  stage,  in  the  excitement  of 
acting,  one  is  not  conscious  of  heat  or  cold." 

The  door-keeper  came  up  to  them.  "  There  is  a 
gentleman  asking  to  see  you,  miss.      He  says  you 


STELLA.  83 

desired  him  to  call.  It 's  against  the  rules  to  admit 
strangers,  and  I  had  to  take  his  name  to  Mr.  Belton 
to  get  consent.  Mr.  Belton  said  he  did  n't  mind 
your  seeing  any  one  to-night,  as  you  were  a  novice  ; 
but  he  wants  you  to  learn  the  rules/ and  the  sooner 
the  better." 

"It's  Mr.  Oakland!  I  begged  him  to  come  for 
one  moment.     How  kind  he  is  !  " 

Mr.  Oakland  was  standing  at  the  stage-door,  some- 
what discomposed  by  the  door-keeper's  rebuff.  Fas- 
tidious and  sensitive  as  he  was,  that  he  subjected 
himself  to  these  annoyances,  was  an  eloquent  proof 
of  his  attachment  to  the  fatherless  girl. 

"  How  good  you  are  !  The  sight  of  you  revives 
me,  and  gives  me  courage  !  " 

"  Fair  Virginia  !  Yes  —  you  are  Virginia  in  looks 
—  be  nothing  but  Virginia  to-night !  I  must  say 
adieu,  for  I  could  not  stay  here  "  (and  he  looked 
around  with  an  expression  of  slight  disgust) 
"  amongst  these  dramatic  savages.  Be  natural ; 
do  not  aim  at  too  much ;  don't  try  to  act,  but  to 
feel  ;  don't  declaim,  but  talk ;  remember  the  good 
rule  :  colloquial,  but  not  prosaic  ;  forcible,  but  not 
declamatory.     Good-by,  and  Heaven  help  you  ! " 

Just  then,  Fisk  darted  by  her,  twisting  his  body 
into  ludicrous  contortions  as  he  ran  up  the  stairs, 
crying,  at  the  top  of  his  piping  voice,  "First  musi- 
ic  —  ic  —  ic  !     First  musi  —  ic  —  ic  —  ic  !  " 

Along  the  gallery,  past  all  the  dressing-room  doors, 
he  sped,  repeating,  "First  musi  —  ic  —  ic !  "  Down 
the  staircase,  beneath  the  stage,  making  the  circuit 
of  the  gentlemen's  dressing-rooms,  he  pursued  his 
rapid  flight,  still  shouting,  "  First  musi  —  ic  —  ic  !  ". 


84  STELLA. 

"  What  is  that  strange  boy  about  ?  "  asked  Stella 
of  Mrs.  Fairfax. 

"  He  is  making  the  first  music  call.  It  is  given  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  curtain  rises. " 

The  musicians  could  now  be  heard  tuning  their 
instruments.  Stella  continued  promenading  up  and 
down  with  Mrs.  Fairfax.  After  the  lapse  of  five 
minutes,  Fisk  was  seen  rolling  himself  from  side  to 
side,  in  sailor-like  fashion,  as  he  climbed  the  stairs 
again,  screaming,  "Second  musi  ■ — ic  —  ic  —  id 
Second  musi  —  ic  —  ic  —  ic!"  He  made  the  same 
tour,  and  then  rolled  back  to  the  prompter's  seat. 

**  Now  it  wants  ten  minutes  of  the  time/'  said  Mrs. 
Fairfax. 

Stella  was  seized  with  an  uncontrollable  fit  of 
gasping  and  trembling.  Her  head  grew  giddy  ;  the 
same  sickening  faintness  which  she  had  experienced 
at  home  now  nearly  overpowered  her.  Mattie  ran 
for  a  glass  of  water.  The  members  of  the  company, 
who  were  on  their  way  to  the  green-room,  stopped 
to  stare  at  the  novice,  to  nudge  each  other,  and  jest 
at  an  alarm  which  most  of  them  had  suffered  them- 
selves. 

"  Last  musi  —  ic  —  ic  —  ic  !  Last  musi  —  ic  — 
ic  —  ic!"  screeched  Fisk,  with  a  new  variation  of 
his  fantasticalities. 

The  orchestra  was  playing  vociferously. 

"  Now,  my  dear,  you  had  better  forget  everything 
else,  and  think  over  your  part.  It  wants  but  five 
minutes  of  the  rising  of  the  curtain." 

**  0,  don't  leave  me  !  don't  leave  me  !  What 
would  I  do  without  you  ?  "  supplicated  Stella,  for 
ehe  saw  her  friend  about  to  mount  the  stair. 


STELLA.  85 

"  I  will  return  directly.  You  don't  appear  until 
the  second  scene.  I  go  on  a  moment  before  you, 
and  from  the  same  entrance.  I  shall  be  by  your 
side.  Now  walk  about  quietly  with  Mattie,  and  try 
to  think  only  of  the  play." 

"  I  shall  fail !  I  shall  fail !  "  murmured  Stella,  in 
an  agony  of  fear.  "  I  shall  never  be  able  to  articu- 
late a  word  !  0  !  if  Mr.  Oakland  were  here,  or  my 
brother,  or  any  one  who  loved  me!" 

She  was  wringing  her  hands  in  absolute  despair, 
when  Perdita  passed  her  and  went  up  to  a  man  in 
the  garb  of  a  Roman  citizen,  who  was  extended  on 
the  ground,  in  one  corner.  He  appeared  to  be  asleep  ; 
his  head  rested  on  a  pile  of  shields,  breastplates,  and 
other  warlike  accoutrements.  Perdita  laid  her  hand 
gently  on  his  shoulder. 

"Father!  father,  dear!  the  last  music  is  called  ; 
you  will  be  wanted  in  a  moment." 

"  Get  out !  get  out !  don't  disturb  me  ;  get  out,  I 
say !  "  was  the  rough  reply,  accompanied  by  a  motion 
that  somewhat  resembled  a  kick. 

"  Father,  you  must  wake  up  !  The  curtain  is  going 
to  rise  !   You  are  on  in  the  first  scene  !  —  do  wake  !  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  Who  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  man,  with 
a  vacant  stare.  "  Perdy,  it's  you,  is  it?  Always 
bothering  me  !  no  quiet  to  be  found  anywhere  ;  no 
rest ! " 

"  I  was  forced  to  wake  you,  father  ;  for  you  are 
called  for  the  stage." 

She  smoothed  his  disordered  hair,  and  arranged 
the  tumbled  folds  of  his  toga. 

He  rose  unwillingly,  shaking  himself  after  the 
fashion  of  a  huge  mastiff.  His  form  was  tall  and 
.   8 


86  STELLA. 

finely  pioportioned.  His  countenance  must  once 
have  been  handsome  ;  but  the  defacing  fingers  of 
passion  and  sensuality  had  ploughed  furrows  that 
destroyed  its  comeliness.  He  was  not  precisely 
intoxicated,  but  in  that  semi-stupid  state  which 
habitual  intemperance  renders  second  nature. 

Stella  forgot  herself  and  her  approaching  trial  as 
she  watched  the  noble  girl  patiently  waiting  upon 
and  soothing  her  brutal  father. 

"  Everybody  called  for  First  Act  of  Virginius  !  " 
bellowed  Fisk,  gambolling  up  to  the  green-room  door. 
"  Servius,  Cneius,  Virginius,  Titus,  and  all  the  Roman 
citizens  !  " 

"  0,  where  is  Mrs.  Fairfax  ? "  cried  Stella,  as 
she  seized  Mattie's  arm  to  support  herself.  "  Why 
don't  she  come  ?  Do  try  and  find  her  room,  and  beg 
her  to  come,  Mattie  !  No  !  no  !  don't  leave  me  here 
alone  !  If  she  would  only  come  !  I  go  on  at  that 
entrance,  over  there.     I  must  get  there  quickly." 

She  was  walking  across  the  stage,  with  Mattie's 
arm  encircling  her  waist,  when  the  orchestra  ceased. 

"Clear  the  stage,  ladies  and  gentlemen/'  called 
out  Mr.  Finch. 

The  prompter's  tinkling  bell  sounded.  Stella's 
white  dress  and  sandalled  feet  were  visible  for  a  sec- 
ond, as  the  curtain  slowly  rose. 

The  first  scene  commenced.  Where  Stella  stood, 
she  commanded  a  full  view  of  the  stage.  But  she 
saw  nothing,  heard  nothing,  —  not  even  the  stately 
Virginius,  not  the  shouts  of  applause  with  which 
his  entrance  was  greeted. 

"  Courage  !  courage  !  "  said  a  kind  voice  at  her 
side.     It  was  Mrs.  Fairfax. 


STELLA.  87 

"  0,  madam,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  under  water  —  sti- 
fling—  drowning ! " 

"  It 's  only  stage  fright,  my  dear  ;  it  will  pass  off 
by  and  by.  All  actors  suffer  more  or  less  from  its 
paralyzing  influence.  Even  our  veterans  are  not 
proof  against  occasional  attacks  of  the  monster. 
Try  and  collect  yourself,  and  think  of  what  you  have 
to  do." 

"  Virginius  —  Servia  —  Virginia,"  cried  Fisk,  in  a 
more  subdued  tone  ;  for,  now  that  the  curtain  had 
risen,  his  former  key  would  have  been  heard  by  the 
audience.  Fisk  looked  saucily  in  Stella's  face,  his 
head  on  one  side,  and  a  sagacious  expression  upon 
his  countenance,  which  seemed  to  ask,  "How  d'  ye 
like  it  ?  Pleasant  feeling,  is  n't  it  ?  "  And  then  he 
repeated  almost  in  her  ear,  "  Vir-gin-ia-a-a  call-ailed  1 " 

"  Go  away,  you  young  pest !  "  said  Mrs.  Fairfax, 
giving  him  a  shove. 

A  "shrill  whistle  sounded ;  it  penetrated  Stella's 
very  brain.  The  scene  changed  to  an  apartment  in 
the  house  of  Virginius. 

"There's  Virginia's  broidery,"  said  Fisk,  giving 
Mrs.  Fairfax  a  frame  with  worsted-work  of  by  no 
means  classic  appearance.  "  There 's  your  Virginia 
painting,"  he  added,  handing  Stella  a  colored  en- 
graving. "  That 's  the  picture  of  Achilles,  which 
looks  so  wonderful  like  your  beloved  Icilius.  An't 
it  fine  ?  " 

At  the  sound  of  the  changing  scene  all  the  com- 
pany poured  from  the  green-room  and  gathered 
around  the  wings,  to  witness  Stella's  debtit.  Actors 
invariably  entertain  a  sovereign  contempt  for  nov- 
ices.    The  stage  tremors  of  youthful  aspirants  are  a 


88  STELLA. 

fruitful  source  of  mirth.  They  delight  in  confusing 
and  tormenting  a  debutante. 

Virginius  enters  with  Servia.  She  points  out  the 
tell-tale  letters  L  and  I  twined  with  a  V,  in  Virginia's 
embroidery.  After  a  brief  dialogue,  Servia  is  des- 
patched for  the  maiden. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  returned  to  the  place  where  she  had 
left  the  panic-stricken  Stella,  and  found  her  lying  in 
Mattie's  arms,  breathless  with  the  intensity  of  her 
emotion,  her  face  and  lips  colorless,  her  eyes  half 
closed. 

The  actress  grasped  her  by  the  shoulder  with  pre- 
tended roughness,  and  shook  her,  saying,  "Rouse 
yourself,  child!  rouse  yourself!  You've  only  a  sec- 
ond now.  You  're  not  going  to  make  a  failure  ? 
Think  of  what  a  disgrace  it  would  be  !  Think  of  the 
one  whom  you  wish  most  to  please  —  who  is  dearest 
to  you  —  and  rouse  yourself.  Virginia*  soliloquy  is 
just  over.  '  Soft  she  comes '  —  that  is  your  cue  ;  go 
on  bravely." 

She  clasped  Stella's  icy  hand,  and  with  gentle 
force  pressed  her  forward.  Stella  was  scarcely  con- 
scious of  what  she  was  doing,  as  she  tottered  on  the 
stage  and  approached  Virginius,  saying,  in  a  tremu- 
lous tone,  "  Well,  father,  what 's  your  will  ?  " 

Those  foot-lights  sent  forth  a  dazzling  glare,  but 
Stella  was  in  total  darkness.  The  air  grew  so 
thick  she  could  not  breathe;  her  "soul  of  lead" 
"  staked  her  to  the  ground ; "  she  could  not  move. 
There  was  a  sound  of  noisy  hands,  a  prolonged  ac- 
clamation, but  Stella  paid  no  heed  to  these,  as  she 
stood  spell-bound  before  Virginius. 

He  attempted  to  speak,  but  the  applause  drowned 


STELLA.  89 

his  voice.  As  it  was  bestowed  upon  another,  he 
would  gladly  have  hushed  it  down,  by  proceeding" 
with  his  part  (a  favorite  trick  of  actors) ;  but  the 
audience  was  resolute  in  obtaining  some  recognition 
from  the  stupefied  novice. 

Mr.  Tennent  now  churlishly  whispered,  "Curtsey, 
curtsey  —  can't  you  ?  "  Muttering  to  himself,  "De- 
fend me  from  novices  !  w 

Stella,  thus  prompted,  turned  mechanically  to  the 
audience  and  bended  slightly,  for  her  quivering  limbs 
rendered  the  genuflexion  somewhat  difficult  of  accom- 
plishment. The  darkness  was  partially  dispelled, 
but  the  still  misty  atmosphere  seemed  full  of  floating 
atoms ;  her  Roman  father  was  enveloped  by  them. 
The  air  was  less  stifling,  but  were  they  not  flakes  of 
ice  which  she  inhaled  at  every  breath  ?  Silence  was 
restored,  and  the  dialogue  proceeded. 

The  graceful  simplicity  of  Stella's  attire,  the 
changing  beauty  of  her  countenance,  the  refinement 
of  her  mien,  her  rich,  well-cadenced  voice,  made  an 
instantaneous  impression  on  the  audience. 

Virginius  despatches  her  for  her  "last  task." 
Mrs.  Fairfax  had  thoughtfully  taken  the  painting 
from  Stella's  hand,  and  was  now  holding  it  in  readi- 
ness. Stella  drew  one  long  breath  of  relief  as  she 
passed  out  of  sight  of  the  audience.  Only  three 
lines  are  spoken  by  Virginius  before  Virginia  reen- 
ters. Stella  would  certainly  have  forgotten  herself 
but  for  Mrs.  Fairfax.  Virginia  returns  with  the  paint- 
ing. Dentatus  enters  a  moment  afterwards.  There 
was  no  trace  of  the  crippled  rheumatic  in  his  gait  or 
mien.     Dentatus  and  Virginius  retire  together. 

It  was  passing  strange,  but  Stella,  now  that  she 


90  STELLA. 

was  left  alone  upon  the  stage,  felt  as  though  the 
freezing  influences  that  begirt  her  had  suddenly 
melted  away.  The  spell  was  broken ;  her  lost 
faculties  were  restored.  Her  form  dilated,  the  truant 
blood  rushed  back  to  her  cheeks,  the  lustre  to  her 
dimmed  eyes,  her  thoughts  concentrated  themselves 
on  her  part ;  with  an  involuntary  self-surrender,  she 
became  Virginia.  Nothing  could  surpass  the  girlish 
naturalness,  the  earnest  sweetness,  with  which  she 
uttered : 

"How  is  it  with  my  heart?    I  feel  as  one 
That  has  lost  everything,  and  just  before 
Had  nothing  left  to  wish  for.    He  will  cast 
Icilius  off !    I  never  told  it  yet ; 
But  take  of  me,  thou  gentle  air,  the  secret  — 
And  ever  after  breathe  more  balmy  sweet  — 
I  love  Icilius  ! 

He  '11  cast  Icilius  off !    Not  if  Icilius 
Approve  his  honor.     That  he  '11  ever  do  ; 
He  speaks,  and  looks,  and  moves,  a  thing  of  honor, 
Or  honor  never  yet  spoke,  looked,  or  moved, 
Or  was  a  thing  of  earth  ! ' ' 

The  audience  testified  their  approval.  She  had  taken 
her  first  step  on  the  steep,  flinty  mount.  That  over, 
at  every  tread  she  gained  a  securer  foothold. 

Icilius  enters.  Virginia  has  but  a  few  lines  to 
speak  in  this  scene,  but  the  maidenly  modesty  with 
which  she  confessed  her  love,  — 

"  My  secret 's  yours  ; 
Keep  it,  and  honor  it,  Icilius,  —  " 

her  drooping  head,  the  unconscious  picturesqueness 

of  her  pose,  drew  down  a  second  round  of  plaudits. 

When  the  act  closed,  Mrs.  Fairfax  embraced  her 


STELLA.  91 

warmly.  "  You  will  be  an  actress.  I  thought  so  ; 
now  I  know  it  t  " 

"  But  what  I  have  suffered,  and  how  much  I  owe 
to  your  sympathy  and  encouragement !  "  replied 
Stella. 

By  the  time  that  the  call-boy's  summons  for  the 
second  act  was  given,  she  had  entirely  regained 
her  self-possession.  Every  time  she  appeared,  she 
grew  in  favor  with  the  audience.  There  is  no  field 
for  a  striking  display  of  dramatic  abilities  in  the 
simple  character  of  Virginia,  as  portrayed  by 
Knowles  ;  but  Stella's  unaffected,  artless  delineation 
left  a  deep  impression. 

In  the  fourth  act,  as  Virginius  raises  his  knife  to 
stab  his  daughter,  Stella  gave  utterance  to  an  irre- 
pressible shriek,  which  imparted  unusual  reality  to 
the  scene.  Virginius,  the  instant  he  had  struck  the 
blow,  dropped  the  young  girl  from  his  arms  upon  the 
ground,  and,  with  upraised  knife,  rushed  towards 
Claudius,  exclaiming: 

"  Lo  !  Appius,  with  this  innocent  blood 
I  do  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  Gods  ! " 

Stella  felt  the  trampling  of  the  citizens'  and  sol- 
diers' feet  over  her  dress  and  on  her  loosened  hair, 
as  they  gathered  round  to  form  the  closing  tableau ; 
but  she  lay  motionless,  inwardly  sending  up  thanks 
to  Heaven  that  her  trial  was  over.  The  curtain  rap- 
idly descended.     Mr.  Belton  assisted  her  to  rise. 

"You  have  done  well,  you  give  promise,"  were 
his  chary  words  of  commendation. 

There  was,  of  course,  a  "  call "  for  the  debutante. 
The  manager  requested   Mr.  Tennent  to   be   kind 


92  STELLA. 

enough  to  lead  on  Miss  Rosenvelt.  The  pompous 
tragedian  complied  somewhat  sulkily.  As  Stella 
made  her  obeisance  before  the  foot-lights,  every 
chord  of  her  heart  vibrated  with  a  strange,  wild  de- 
light. It  was  the  first  sensation  of  unalloyed  pleas- 
ure she  had  experienced  that  night. 

While  she  resumed  her  every-day  attire,  the  tear- 
ful congratulations  of  Mattie  drew  from  her  eyes 
responding  tokens  of  joy. 

Floy  came  for  the  basket.  That  he  noticed  her 
streaming  eyes  was  obvious.  "  0  !  0  !  0  !  "  he  mur- 
mured, pityingly  ;  then,  when  she  smiled,  he  shook 
his  head,  rubbed  his  hands  gleefully,  and  repeated 
his  favorite  ejaculation,  "  Such  a  house !  such  a 
house  !  " 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  debutante  was  sobbing  in 
her  mother's  arms.  "  Mother,  I  have  succeeded  ! 
Forgive  my  waywardness  !  " 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Weight  of  New  Responsibility.  —  Fate  of  Public  Idols.  — 
Shakspeare  at  the  Toilet.  —  Mental  Aliment.  —  Rehearsal  of 
Desdemona.  —  Mr.  Oakland's  Analytical  Criticisms.  —  The 
Second  Night  behind  the  Scenes.  —  Floy. —  The  Ballet-Girl's 
Request.  —  Stella's  Breams  of  Future  Power.  —  Perdita,  and 
her  Senatorial  Parent The  Call-Boy's  Rebuke  of  the  Nov- 
ice.—  Return  of  Stage  Fright.  —  A  Blustering  Othello. — 
Desdemona's  Entrance  in  the  Council- Chamber.  —  Stella's 
Conception  of  the  Character.  —  Evidences  of  Genius.  —  Un- 
fortunate Embrace  of  the  Moor  and  Lady.  —  Meeting  of  the 
Sublime  and  Absurd.  —  Stella's  Fall  from  Poetic  Heights.  — 
An  Awkward  Predicament.  —  Timely  Advice  of  Mrs.  Fair 
fax.  —  Stella  again  surrenders  herself  to  the  Magic  of  Person 
ation.  —  Powers  of  the  Young  Actress  Unfolded.  —  Salient 
Points.  —  The  Spell  accidentally  dissolved  by  a  Well-meaning 
Friend.  —  Fifth  Act.  —  Unanticipated  Violence  of  the  Trage- 
dian. —  Desdemona' s  Suffocation.  —  Kind  Assistance  of  Mrs. 
Fairfax.  —  The  Picture.  —  Gradually  Increasing  Tortures  of 
Desdemona's  Position.  —  Lost  Consciousness. 

The  first  perilous  ordeal  passed,  its  auguries  all 
auspicious,  Stella  thought  to  experience  a  sense  of 
relief,  of  serene  security,  a  freedom  from  the  harass- 
ing doubts  which  had  tortured  her  spirit  for  days 
But  the  weight  of  a  new  responsibility  that  pressed 
upon  her  mind  soon  dispelled  these  fallacious  hopes. 
She  had  succeeded  ;  but,  alas !  how  uncertain  was 
the  tenure  by  which  that  success  was  held  !     Are 


94  •  STELLA. 

even  the  smiles  of  princes  as  inconstant  as  public 
favor  ?  What  air-blown  bubbles  are  lighter  than  the 
empty  breath  of  popular  acclamations  ?  What  is  an 
actor  but  a  world's  puppet,  to  be  to-day  extolled  to 
the  skies,  to-morrow  derided  and  denounced  as  an 
egotistic  impostor  ?  Has  not  the  veriest  caprice,  the 
merest  accident,  again  and  again  caused  an  audience 
to  pluck  from  the  brows  of  their  minions  the  laurels 
of  toilsome  years  ?  When  the  idol  is  elevated  to 
its  throne,  and  clothed  with  .all  imagined  perfections, 
what  is  left  but  to  tear  it  down?  The  exist- 
ence of  the  actor,  then,  must  be  a  daily  struggle  to 
maintain  the  slippery  eminence  he  has  won  ;  a  con- 
stant combat  against  the  uplifted  hands  ready  to 
pluck  him  thence  ;  a  nightly  strife  to  ascend  beyond 
their  reach.  And  had  Stella  no  prescience  of  this 
direful  contest  ?  No  !  The  bitter  knowledge  could 
only  be  revealed  after  she  had  taken  her  first  irrev- 
ocable step. 

On  the  morning  succeeding  her  debut,  she  forsook 
her  pillow  almost  before  the  sun 

M began  to  draw 

The  shady  curtain  from  Aurora's  bed." 

She  rose  unrefreshed,  for  Care  had  taken  up  his 
mansion  in  her  breast,  and  his  enemy,  Sleep,  would 
not  lodge  near  him.  Her  limbs  ached1  as  she  stag- 
gered across  the  room  ;  her  heavy  eyes  could  scarcely 
see.  She  was  compelled  to  lie  down  again ;  and, 
having  selected  a  volume  of  Shakspeare,  returned 
to  her  couch,  not  to  slumber,  but  to  study.  She  was 
to  enact  Desdemona  that  night,  to  rehearse  Desde- 
mona  that  morning.     The  Lady  of  Lyons  was  the 


STELLA.  95 

play  selected  for  the  following  night ;  Evadne  for 
the  third.  In  the  crowded  laboratory  of  her  brain 
those  poetic  phantoms  must  needs  receive  vitality, 
and  assume  shape  and  substance. 

The  book  remained  in  her  hands  until  Mattie's 
summons  to  breakfast.  Nor  was  it  wholly  thrown 
aside  as  the  young  actress  performed  her  morning 
toilet.  She  fastened  the  volume  to  the  frame  of 
her  mirror,  and,  while  smoothing  the  rich  tangles  of 
her  hair,  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  open  pages. 
More  than  once  her  mind  became  so  thoroughly  en- 
grossed that  the  comb  dropped  from  her  fingers, 
her  hands  involuntarily  clasped  themselves  over  her 
head  in  their  favorite  position,  and  she  walked  to 
and  fro  in  the  small  chamber,  rehearsing  aloud. 

It  was  long  past  the  usual  hour  when  she  joined 
her  mother  at  breakfast.  The  latter  seemed,  for  once, 
inclined  to  converse  ;  but  Stella  could  not  talk,  nor 
could  she  partake  of  food.  With  mental  aliment 
her  throbbing  brain  was  overloaded,  and  labored 
fruitlessly  to  digest  its  too  abundant  supply. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  forgetting  rehearsal,  Miss 
Stella  ;  we  shall  hardly  be  in  time,"  said  Mattie  ; 
and  Stella  was  quickly  roused  from  her  fit  of  abstrac- 
tion. The  attendant  identified  herself  so  completely 
with  her  young  charge,  that  the  we  was  constantly 
upon  her  lips.  "  We  play  Desdemona  to-night." 
"  We  played  Virginia  last  night." 

Mr.  Tennent  had  not  arrived  when  they  appeared 
upon  the  stage.  Other  members  of  the  company, 
calculating  upon  the  great  tragedian's  habitual  dila- 
toriness,  were  also  absent.  The  prompter  and  his 
flippant  juvenile  assistant  were  the  only  persons  at 


96  .  STELLA. 

their  post.  To  Stella  the  interim  was  not  lost 
time.  She  seated  herself  at  the  manager's  table, 
and  diligently  resumed  her  studies.  She  was  totally 
unconscious  of  what  occurred  around  her,  until  Fisk 
made  his  call,  and  rehearsal  commenced.  Mrs.  Fair- 
fax enacted  Emilia.  Stella  had  again  the  encourag- 
ing support  of  the  friend  to  whom  she  hourly  became 
more  attached.  Mrs.  Fairfax  was  so  helpful,  so  con- 
siderate of  the  feelings  of  others,  so  lenient  to  their 
failings,  a  being  to  whom  all  gracious  acts  seemed 
so  natural,  that  she  was  respected  and  beloved 
throughout  the  theatre. 

Eehearsal  passed  off  smoothly.  It  was  nearly 
two  o'clock  when  it  ended,  and  Stella  had  promised 
to  be  at  her  tutor',s  residence  by  one.  She  had  hoped 
to  devote  at  least  two  hours  to  the  study  of  an  art, 
which,  still  progressing,  is  never  perfected.  It  was 
vexatious  that  her  time  was  thus  unexpectedly 
curtailed  ;  and  she  could  not  require  Mr.  Oakland  to 
abandon  other  engagements.  She  prized  his  instruc- 
tions, for  they  pointed  out  landmarks  by  means  of 
which  she  could  travel  safely  on  her  new  pathway. 
His  analytical  criticism  unfolded  the  subtlest  beau- 
ties of  the  character  they  were  investigating.  Stella 
used  to  call  the  process  a  "poetic  dissection."  The 
author's  most  hidden  meanings  were  brought  into 
full  light,  and  often  what  was  the  mere  outline  of  an 
ideal  creation  was  gracefully  filled  up,  and  rendered 
a  coherent  whole. 

Mr.  Oakland,  though  he  had  been  charmed  with 
Stella's  personation  of  the  gentle  Virginia,  was  not 
prodigal  of  eulogium.  He  bade  her  remember  that 
the  character  was  not  one  in  which  her  powers  could 


STELLA .  97 

be  tested.  That  what  she  had  accomplished  was 
but  as  a  few  coruscant  sparks  compared  to  a  steady, 
upward-shooting  flame,  when  contrasted  with  what 
she  must  achieve  to  rank  among  "  earth- treading 
stars"  of  first  magnitude. 

Stella  and  Mattie  reached  the  theatre  nearly  an 
hour  later  that  night  than  on  the  previous  evening. 
Fisk  had  shouted  his  "Last  musi  —  ic  —  ic!"  ac- 
companying his  other  whimsicalities  by  "  Yankee 
Doodle  "  rapped  with  his  knuckles  on  every  door  he 
passed.  And  Stella  had  not  yet  donned  her  white 
satin  train,  and  secured  her  net  of  pearls  over 
locks  which  to-night  were  allowed  to  escape  in 
struggling  ringlets  to  her  waist. 

The  orchestra  had  ceased  —  the  curtain  rose. 
Stella's  heart,  when  she  descended  the  staircase, 
palpitated  almost  as  painfully  as  on  the  evening  be- 
fore. She  was  accompanied  only  by  Mattie,  who 
bore  her  train.  Mrs.  Fairfax  did  not  appear  until 
the  second  act,  and  her  toilet  was  not  completed. 

As  Stella  passed  behind  the  scenes,  Floy  leaped 
out  from  some  dark  corner,  and  rushed  up  to  her, 
whispering,  "  Such  a  house  !  such  a  house  !  "  then 
fled  again. 

Perdita  caught  sight  of  her  as  she  passed  the 
green-room  door.  With  a  confused  mien  the  young 
ballet-girl  joined  her,  and  placed  a  long  strip  of  lace 
in  her  hand.  It  was  delicately  knitted  of  fine  linen 
thread. 

"  It  is  the  best  I  can  do.  Do  you  think  it  pretty  ?  " 
asked  Perdita,  timidly. 

"  Very  pretty,  indeed.    What  do  you  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Sell  it,  generally,  to  the   ladies  of  the  theatre. 


98  STELLA. 

It  does  almost  as  well  on  stage-dresses  as  real  lace. 
One  can't  tell  the  difference  from  the  boxes.  Per- 
haps—  perhaps  you  would  like  this  piece?  You 
may  have  dresses  that  need  lace  trimming." 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much.  I  want  five  or  six 
yards  of  lace  for  the  dress  I  wear  in  the  Lady  of 
Lyons,  to-morrow.  But,  you  have  not  more  than 
two  yards  here." 

t*  Let  me  knit  you  the  rest ;  it  will  be  such  a  help 
to  me  !  You  shall  have  it  in  time  for  the  dress.  I 
don't  mind  sitting  up  all  night.  Do  give  me  the  order, 
and  I  won't  disappoint  you." 

"  And  make  you  sit  up  knitting  all  night  ?  I 
would  not  like  you  to  do  that." 

"  I  am  used  to  it,"  replied  the  girl,  tranquilly.  '.'  I 
am  only  too  glad  to  obtain  work.  May  I  knit  the 
lace  for  you  ?  "  she  pleaded. 

"  Yes,  certainly ;  only  Mattie  must  have  it  at 
least  an  hour  before  we  start  for  the  theatre  to- 
morrow." 

As  Stella  listened  to  the  ballet-girl's  warm  out- 
pouring of  gratitude,  and  watched  her  flying  needles, 
she  thought  to  herself,  "  If  I  am  only  successful,  in 
the  centre  of  what  a  field  for  the  performance  of 
kindly  offices  shall  I  stand  !  What  a  wide  sphere  of 
usefulness  will  be  thrown  open  to  me  !  Why  may 
I  not  foster  this  '  violet  by  the  mossy  stone  '  — 
transplant  it,  perhaps,  to  some  more  fertile  soil  ?  It 
is  for  such  exercise  of  good  my  heart  has  long 
yearned.  Success  will  be  doubly  glorious,  if  her 
laurels  gift  me  with  this  power." 

Desdemona  does  not  appear  until  the  third  scene 


STELLA.  99 

of  the  tragedy.  She  is  then  led  by  Iago  into  the 
council-chamber. 

Perdita's  father  represented  one  of  the  "most  po- 
tent, grave,  and  reverend  signiors."  Stella  noticed 
that  the  thoughtful  daughter  broke  off  abruptly  from 
conversation,  and  unfastened  a  wig  of  flowing  white 
hair,  which  she  had  secured  to  her  waistband.  Her 
father,  in  senatorial  robes,  had  just  emerged  from 
his  underground  dressing-room.  She  went  up  to  him, 
and  carefully  adjusted  the  wig  on  his  head,  talking 
to  him,  the  while,  in  a  low,  loving  tone.  This  task 
completed,  the  knitting-needles  flashed  backwards 
and  forwards  again,  as  she  stood  by  his  side. 

"  Desdemona  call-ai\-alled  !  "  loudly  whispered  Fisk 
behind  her. 

She  started,  and  commenced  running  towards  the 
entrance  from  which  she  was  to  make  her  appear- 
ance, when  Fisk  intercepted  her,  rebukingly  : 

"Plenty  of  time!  Keep  cool  —  take  it  easy  — 
don't  be  in  a  hurry  —  two  minutes  by  the  watch. 
My  calls  always  give  time  enough  to  prevent 
ruffling  feathers/' 

The  icy  tremor,  the  giddy,  choking  faintness,  were 
coming  back. 

She  listened  to  Mr.  Tennent's  blustering  delivery 
of  Othello's  memorable  speech  before  the  senate. 
The  "  course  of  his  wooing,"  "  the  witchcraft  he 
had  used,"  were  made  known  through  a  succession 
of  explosive  sounds,  accompanied  by  a  series  of 
spasmodic  gesticulations.  Instead  of  the  modest, 
exculpatory  narration  warranted,  by  the  text,  his 
manner  spoke  defiance   to   the  haughty  potentates 


100  STELLA. 

who  dared  to  demand  such  a  history  from  his  august 
lips. 

Stella's  agitation  was  not  so  great  that  she  failed 
to  make  this  criticism. 

As  the  Moorish  hero  announced  her  presence  with 

"Here  comes  the  lady;  let  her  witness  it," 

"  Your  hand,  if  you  please,"  said  the  representative 
of  Iago.  She  had  not  noticed  that  he  was  standing 
beside  her. 

Stella  gave  her  hand.  Mattie  smoothed  down  and 
floated  the  snowy  train.  Iago  led  in  Desdemona. 
She  curtseyed  low  to  the  Duke.  The  stage  was  ar- 
ranged in  such  a  manner  that,  to  face  the  Senators, 
her  back  was  necessarily  turned  to  the  audience. 
Its  reception  passed  unnoticed  by  Stella.  Even  had 
she  possessed  sufficient  self-command  to  turn  and 
acknowledge  their  greeting  by  an  obeisance,  it 
would  have  been  a  breach  of  good  taste.  The  spec- 
tators would  at  once  have  lost  sight  of  the 

"  Maiden  never  bold  ; 
Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet  that  her  motion 
Blushed  at  herself," 

and  viewed  but  the  actress,  the  novice. 

When  Brabantio  addressed  his  daughter  with 

M  Come  hither,  mistress  : 
Do  you  perceive,  in  all  this  noble  company, 
Where  most  you  owe  obedience  ?  " 

she  bowed  her  head  with  an  inclination  of  filial  rev- 
erence ;   then,  in  a  tone  of  modest  frankness,  her 


STELLA.  101' 

speaking  eyes  lifted  to  her  father's  face,  and  after- 
wards turned  confidingly  upon  the  Moor,  she  replied  * 

M  My  noble  father, 
I  do  perceive  here  a  divided  duty. 
To  you  I  am  bound  for  life  and  education  ; 
My  life  and  education  both  do  learn  me 
How  to  respect  you  ;  you  are  the  lord  of  duty. 
I  am  hitherto  your  daughter  ;  but  here  's  my  husband  ; 
And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  showed 
To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father. 
So  much  I  challenge  that  I  may  profess 
Due  to  the  Moor,  my  lord." 

The  audience  seldom  fail  to  respond  to  Desdemo- 
na's  sentiment,  even  if  its  delivery  command  no  ap- 
proval. But,  in  this  instance,  poet  and  interpreter 
won  equal  meed.  In  a  moment  the  young  actress 
had  merged  her  own  individuality  into  ideal  person- 
ation. Desdemona's  touching  softness,  the  tender 
pride  with  which  she  confesses  and  defends  her  de- 
votion to  her  newly-made  husband,  were  exquisitely 
illustrated  in  Stella's  glowing  recital  of  the  lines : 

"  That  I  did  love  the  Moor  to  live  with  him, 
My  downright  violence  and  storm  of  fortunes 
May  trumpet  to  the  world  ;  my  heart 's  subdued, 
Even  to  the  very  quality  of  my  lord. 
I  saw  Othello's  visage  in  his  mind, 
And  to  his  honors,  and  his  valiant  parts, 
Did  I  my  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate  !  " 

Her  pleading  to  the  Duke  to  be  allowed  to  accom- 
pany her  husband  to  the  wars ;  her  imploring  face 
as  she  sank  at  her  father's  feet,  and  clung  to  his 
robe,  mutely  supplicating  a  blessing ;  her  shudder 
when  he  threw  her  off,  exclaiming : 
9 


Wjt  STELLA. 

"Look  to  her,  Moor  ;  have  a  quick  eye  to  see  ; 
She  hath  deceived  her  father,  and  may  thee  !  " 

her  expression  of  grateful  joy  when  Othello  lifts  her, 
with  the  confident  reply, 

"  My  life  upon  her  faith  !  " 

gave  warrant  of  the  fidelity  of  her  conception. 

Desdemona  next  enters  with  Emilia,  Iago,  and 
Roderigo.  They  have  just  landed  on  the  island  of 
Cyprus,  and  are  thus  poetically  welcomed  by  Cassio  : 

"  0  behold, 
The  riches  of  the  ship  is  come  on  shore  ! 
Ye  men  of  Cyprus,  let  her  have  your  knees. 
Hail  to  thee,  lady  !  and  the  grace  of  Heaven, 
Before,  behind  thee,  and  on  every  hand, 
Enwheel  thee  round." 

Iago's  scoffs  at  womanhood  are  the  leading  feat- 
ure of  the  brief  dialogue  that  ensues.  Desdemona, 
though  she  replies  merrily  to  his  jests,  betrays  a 
secret  solicitude  in  the  absence  of  Othello ;  not 
merely  by  her  anxious  query,  "  There  's  one  gone  to 
the  harbor  ?  w  and  her  declaration, 

"  I  am  not  merry,  but  I  do  beguile 
The  thing  I  am,  by  seeming  otherwise  ;  " 

but  by  her  troubled  mien,  her  abstracted  looking  in 
the  distance,  her  start  of  joy,  and  the  sudden  light- 
ing up  of  her  countenance  at  the  sound  of  the  trum- 
pet, which  Iago  pronounces  to  be  that  of  the  Moor. 
"  Let 's  meet  him  and  receive  him  ! ;;  gushed  in  a 
burst  of  rapture  from  her  lips. 


STELLA.  103 

There  was  no  hesitation  when  she  rushed  into 
his  extended  arms,  as  he  greeted  her  with : 

"  0  my  fair  warrior  ! 
It  gives  me  wonder  great  as  my  content 
To  see  you  here  before  me.     0  my  soul's  joy  ! 
If  after  every  tempest  come  such  calms, 
Let  the  winds  blow  till  they  have  wakened  death  ; 
And  let  the  laboring  bark  climb  hills  of  seas, 
Olympus-high,  and  duck  again  as  low 
As  hell 's  from  heaven  !    If  it  were  now  to  die, 
'T  were  now  to  be  most  happy  ;  for,  I  fear, 
My  soul  hath  her  content  so  absolute, 
That  not  another  comfort  like  to  this 
Succeeds  in  unknown  fate  !  " 

Stella  never  once  thought  of  Mr.  Tennent,  the 
supercilious,  exacting,  self-sufficient  tragedian,  but 
of  the  noble  Othello ;  not  of  Stella  Rosenvelt,  the 
unsophisticated  maiden,  but  of  the  true-hearted,  in- 
genuous Desdemona,  the  bride  of  her  Moorish  hus- 
band. The  least  undue  reserve,  the  slightest 
shrinking,  would  have  been  an  evidence  of  that 
painful  self-consciousness  which  is  indissolubly  allied 
to  mediocrity,  but  which  genius  tramples  under  foot. 

Othello  had  held  her  off,  gazing  fondly  in  her  face, 
but  with  the  last  words  he  suddenly  drew  her  to  his 
heart.  The  action  was  unanticipated  by  the  luckless 
Desdemona.  Her  face  was  upraised,  her  forehead 
came  in  contact  with  his  chin.  The  sublime  and  the 
ridiculous  embraced  at  the  same  moment  as  the  Moor 
and  lady.  The  reddish-black  dye,  which  gave  to 
Othello's  visage  its  swarthy  hue,  could  be  removed 
by  a  touch.  Stella's  forehead  had  largely  received 
the  sombre  impression.      Not  suspecting  the  unto- 


104  S  T  E  L  L  A  . 

ward  accident,  she  replied,  in  the  same  impassioned 
strain : 

"  The  heavens  forbid 
But  that  our  loves  and  comforts  should  increase, 
Even  as  our  days  do  grow.'* 

Othello  rejoins : 

"  Amen  to  that,  sweet  powers  ! 
I  cannot  speak  enough  of  this  content ; 
It  stops  me  here  ;  it  is  too  much  joy  ; 
And  this,  and  this,  the  greatest  discords  be 
That  e'er  our  hearts  shall  make  ! ' ' 

and  while  he  bent  over  her,  in  the  pretence  of  suiting 
the  action  to  the  word  (stage  salutations  being  gener- 
ally a  very  obvious  make-believe),  he  whispered : 

"  Don't  turn  your  face  towards  the  audience,  for 
your  life  !  Your  forehead  's  as  black  as  the  ace  of 
spades ! " 

Down  fell  poor  Stella  from  her  poetic  heights  1 
The  black  paint,  its  begriming  touch  to  her  own-  fair 
forehead,  Mr.  Tennent's  commonplace  tone,  dissolved 
the  spell ;  the  loving  Venetian  quickly  melted  away. 
The  disenchanted  girl  shrank  from  Mr.  Tennent's 
encircling  arms  ;  she  raised  her  hand  to  her  forehead 
to  hide  the  stain,  but  only  smeared  the  inky  hue  into 
her  eyes  ;  she  was  strongly  inclined  to  dart  from  the 
stage,  perhaps  would  have  yielded  to  the  tempta- 
tion, had  not  Mrs.  Fairfax  noticed  the  mishap,  and, 
approaching  her  with  a  step  and  air  that  suited 
Emilia,  whispered : 

"  They  won't  notice  it,  my  dear  !  You  are  off  in 
a  few  lines.     Don't  try  to  rub  it  away  ;  you  are  only 


STELLA.  105 

making  it  worse,  and  you  will  attract  the  attention 
of  the  audience." 

As  she  spoke,  she  bowed  her  head  deferentially, 
causing  the  spectators  to  suppose  that  Desdemqna's 
attendant  and  confidant  was  merely  delivering  to 
her  some  courteous  message. 

Stella  was  at  last  conducted  from  the  scene  by  Mr. 
Tennent.  She  heard  Fisk's  peals  of  laughter  as  he 
passed  her  on  his  way  to  make  the  calls,  and  the 
suppressed'  merriment  of  the  actors.  As  she  re- 
moved the  disfiguring  marks,  she  resolved  to  keep 
at  a  respectful  distance  from  her  grim-visaged  lord. 

Desdemona,  according  to  the  stage  version  (which 
omits  her  during  the  midnight  brawl  when  Cassio 
fights  with  Roderigo),  is  next  discovered  conversing 
with  the  disgraced  Cassio,  and  pledging  herself,  with 
all  the  generosity  of  am  unsuspicious,  inexperienced 
nature,  to  restore  him  to  his  lost  position. 


before  Emilia  here, 


I.  give  thee  warrant  of  thy  place  ;  assure  thee, 

If  I  do  vow  a  friendship,  I  '11  perform  it 

To  the  last  article.     My  lord  shall  never  rest ; 

I  '11  watch  him  tame,  and  talk  him  out  of  patience  ; 

I  '11  intermingle  everything  he  does 

With  Cassio's  suit.     Therefore  be  merry,  Cassio, 

For  thy  solicitor  shall  rather  die 

Than  give  thy  cause  away. ' ' 

The  promise  was  uttered  with  emphatic  earnest- 
ness ;  Stella  had  again  surrendered  herself  to  the 
magic  of  personation. 

Cassio  departs.  Othello  enters.  Desdemona  at 
once  playfully  introduces  her  suit.     When  it  is  de- 


106  STELLA. 

nied,  she,  with  bewitching  coquetry,  chides  her  lord 
for  being  more  niggard  of  his  courteous  gifts  to  her 
than  she  is  to  him. 

•  "I  wonder  in  my  soul 

What  you  could  ask  me  that  7"  should  deny, 

Or  stand  so  mammering  on.     What !  Michael  Cassio, 

That  came  a  wooing  with  you,  and  many  a  time, 

When  I  have  spoke  of  you  dispraisingly, 

Hath  ta'en  your  part ;  to  have  so  much  to  do 

To  bring  him  in  !    Trust  me,  I  could  do  much  — 

Othello.     Prithee,  no  more  ;  let  him  come  when  he  will. 
I  will  deny  thee  nothing. 

Desdemona.  Why,  this  is  not  a  boon  ; 

'T  is  as  I  should  entreat  you  wear  your  gloves, 
Or  feed  on  nourishing  dishes,  or  keep  you  warm, 
Or  sue  to  you  to  do  peculiar  profit 
To  your  own  person.    Nay,  when  I  have  a  suit 
Wherein  I  mean  to  touch  your  love  indeed, 
It  shall  be  full  of  poise  and  difficulty, 
And  fearful  to  be  granted." 

Othello  desires  her  to  leave  him  for  a  while.  She 
yields  to  his  request ;  but,  not  forgetting  for  a  mo 
ment  her  promised  advocacy,  turns  back  with  an 
arch  taunt : 

"  Shall  I  deny  you  ?    No,  farewell,  my  lord  ! 
*  *  *  *  # 

Whate'er  you  be,  /am  obedient." 

Before  Desdemona  and  Othello  meet  again,  Iago 
has  roused  the  "  green-eyed  monster "  slumbering 
in  the  Moor's  breast.  But,  at  the  fair  Desdemona's 
approach,  the  evil  spirit  vanishes  as  demons  fly  the 
presence  of  angels.  Othello  beholds  her  coming, 
and,   penetrated  by  the   aura  of  purity  that  sur- 


STELLA.  10*7 

rounds  her,  flings  away  his  unworthy  doubts,  and 
bursts  forth  : 

"  If  she  be  false,  0  !  then  heaven  mocks  itself ! 
I '11  not  believe  it !  " 

The  scene  is  very  short.  Desdemona  summons  her 
husband  to  join  the  generous  islanders  at  dinner. 
With  the  quick  eyes  of  love,  she  notices  his  dejec- 
tion. He  assigns  "  a  pain  upon  his  forehead,  here," 
as  the  cause  ;  she  would  bind  the  aching  brow  with 
her  handkerchief ;  but  Othello  impatiently  puts  by 
her  hand,  from  which  the  handkerchief  drops.  It  is 
silently  secured  by  Emilia,  who  afterwards  gives  it 
to  Iago. 

The  following  scene  finds  Desdemona  searching 
for  the  lost  handkerchief,  her  husband's  much-loved 
gift.  Othello  unexpectedly  breaks  in  upon  her.  And 
now  the  powers  of  the  young  actress  unfolded  them- 
selves, as  she  portrayed  Desdemona's  feminine  soft- 
ness, her  unresisting,  defenceless  nature,  her  perfect 
trust  in  the  nobleness  of  her  lord.  She  greets  him 
tenderly  ;  and  when  he  asks  for  her  hand,  and  scans 
her  face  with  suspicious  eyes,  rudely  telling  her  that 
the  hand  he  holds  is  moist,  she  replies,  with  a  smile, 

"  It  yet  hath  felt  no  age,  nor  known  no  sorrow  !  " 

Her  look  of  innocent  wonder,  as  Othello  warns  her 
that  such  a  hand  requires  fasting,  prayer,  exercise 
devout ;  and  when  he  checks  himself,  and  adds, 
"  ;T  is  a  good  hand,  a  frank  one,"  her  whole-souled 
reply, 

"  You  may  indeed  say  so; 
For  't  was  that  hand  that  gave  away  my  heart; "" 

her  careless  disclaimer  of  all  knowledge  that  hands 


108  STELLA. 

were  ever  given  without  hearts  ;  her  woman-like 
pertinacity  in  reverting  to  her  former  suit  for  Cassio's 
pardon  ;  her  almost  guilty  start  when  Othello  asks 
for  her  handkerchief;  her  equivocation  and  confusion ; 
her  sudden  pallor  and  violent  trembling ;  the  quick 
lights  and  shadows  flitting  over  her  face,  when  he 
tells  her  of  the  charm  that  is  woven  in  that  handker- 
chief—  the  misery  it  would  bring  upon  her  to  lose  it 
or  give  it  away  ;  her  look  of  frozen  horror,  as  she 
gasps  out, 

"  Then,  would  to  heaven  that  I  had  never  seen  it !  " 

her  short,  frightened  answers  to  his  questioning  vio- 
lence ;  her  hysterical  effort  to  force  a  laugh  and  feign 
composure,  as  she  tries  to  speak  of  Cassio  again ; 
and,  when  Othello  rushes  out,  and  Emilia,  taunting 
her  with  former  incredulity,  coldly  asks, 

"  Is  not  this  man  jealous  ?  " 

her  gazing  after  him  with  dilated  eyes,  and  quiver- 
ing lips,  then  turning  upon  Emilia  a  face  all  wonder, 
and  slowly  answering, 

"  I  ne'er  saw  this  before  !  " 

her  subdued  greeting  of  Cassio,  who  now  enters  ; 
her  mournful  communication  to  him  that  her  "  advo- 
cation is  not  now  in  tune  ;  "  her  snatching  at  Cassio's 
suggestion  that  something  of  moment  has  moved 
Othello,  and  her  brightening  countenance  as  she  per- 
suades herself  that  it  is  something  of  state  matters 
which  has  disturbed  him  ;  her  extracting  comfort 
from  the  reflection,  that,  "  in  such  cases,  men's 
natures  wrangle  with  inferior  things,  though  great 


STELLA.  109 

ones  are  their  object  \  V  the  regretful  sigh  with  which 
she  adds, 

"  Nay,  we  must  think  men  are  not  gods; 
Nor  of  them  look  for  such  observances 
As  fit  the  bridal " 

her  determination  to  seek  Othello,  evidently  because 
she  cannot  bear  his  absence,  though  she  bashfully 
veils  her  motive  under  the  plea  that  she  must  further 
entreat  for  Cassio's  reinstatement ;  —  all  these  chang- 
ing emotions  were  delineated  with  a  skill  that  stamped 
the  youthful  actress  as  one  who  vindicated  her  own 
right  to  interpret  the  great  master  of  the  drama,  by 
her  bold  yet  delicate,  grand  yet  life-like,  embodi- 
ment of  his  conception. 

After  this,  Desdemona  seeks  Othello's  presence, 
accompanied  by  her  cousin,  Lodovico.  The  latter 
bears  a  packet  of  import  to  the  Moor.  She  has  re- 
sumed her  wonted  smiling  serenity  ;  she  prattles 
with  Lodovico  of  Cassio,  and  the  unkind  breach  be- 
tween him  and  her  lord ;  and,  even  when  Othello 
accosts  her  in  a  wrathful  tone,  she  inquires  his  will 
with  a  gentle  "My  lord?"  Nor,  as  his  rage  in- 
creases, does  she  seem  willing  or  able  to  perceive  its 
workings.  Once  she  turns  to  Lodovico  with  an  in- 
credulous "What,  is  he  angry?"  as  though  she 
needed  confirmation  of  what  was  so  apparent.  Her 
cousin  tells  her  that  doubtless  something  in  the  letter 
he  is  perusing  moves  him,  and  she  is  satisfied.  But 
when  Othello's  ire  breaks  all  bounds,  and  he  strikes 
her  with  the  letter,  she  utters  a  low  cry,  and  bursts 
into  tears ;  looking  up,  with  the  mild  and  touching 
reproach, 

10 


110  STELLA. 

«" I  have  not  deserved  this  !  " 

Othello  orders  her  from  his  presence,  and  she  meekly 
replies, 

"  I  will  not  stay  to  offend  you  !  " 

In  the  ensuing  scene,  the  Moor,  wrought  to  frenzy 
by  the  conviction  that  his  jealous  fears  are  planted 
on  firm  ground,  sends  Emilia  for  his  wife.  Desde- 
mona's  whole  demeanor  is  now  changed.  As  she 
enters,  her  head  droops,  her  eyes  peruse  the  ground, 
her  limbs  quake.     She  faintly  demands, 

"  My  lord,  what  is  your  will  ?  " 

Othello  harshly  bids  her  to  let  him  see  her  eyes  —  to 
look  him  in  the  face.  She  lifts  to  his  a  ghastly  coun- 
tenance, and  murmurs,  with  suppressed  breathing, 

"  What  horrible  fancy  's  this  ?  " 

A  moment  after,  sinking  at  his  feet,  she  exclaims, 

"  Upon  my  knees,  what  doth  your  speech  import  ? 
I  understand  a  fury  in  your  words, 
But  not  the  words." 

When  her  husband  frames  his  doubts  of  her  fidelity 
into  language,  she  starts  up  horror-stricken,  and,  too 
much  amazed  even  for  indignation,  asks, 

"Alas  !  what  ignorant  sin  have  I  committed  ?  " 

But  when  he  unfolds  his  meaning  in  plainer  and 
most  revolting  words,  she  is  stunned  by  the  mon- 
strous accusation,  and  can  scarcely  answer, 


STELLA.  Ill 

"  By  heaven,  you  do  me  wrong  !  " 

Othello  asks  her  if  this  charge  be  not  true ;  she 
drops  upon  her  knees,  and,  lifting  up  her  arms  and 
her  beauteous  face  to  heaven,  fervently  replies, 

"  No  !  as  I  am  a  Christian  ! 
No  !  as  I  shall  be  saved  !  " 

There  was  so  much  reality  in  the  action,  —  the  guile- 
less countenance,  the  heaven-appealing  tone,  —  that 
it  thrilled  the  whole  audience.  The  repeated 
"  rounds,"  that  testified  their  recognition  of  the  true 
Promethean  spark,  were  followed  by  a  loud,  long 
cheer. 

When  Othello,  in  the  succeeding  speech,  applies 
to  his  wife  a  term  of  worst  opprobrium,  she  falls 
upon  the  ground,  as  though  the  word  had  been  "  shot 
from  the  deadly  level  of  a  gun,"  and  murdered  her. 
Othello  summons  Emilia,  and  leaves  his  prostrate 
wife  to  her  care.  Emilia  raises  her  friend.  Desde- 
mona's  mind  seems  confused  by  the  sorrows  which 
she  yet  makes  a  feeble  effort  to  hide.  Then,  moved 
by  a  sudden  thought,  she  bids  Emilia  call  Iago. 
Desdemona  imagines  that  he  may  explain  Othello's 
conduct.  Iago  appears  before  her ;  but,  when  she 
would  repeat  to  him  the  insulting  epithet  used  by  her 
husband,  her  modest  tongue  refuses  its  office, — the 
word  cannot  pass  her  pure  lips.  She  weeps  in 
silence,  while  Emilia  descants  upon  the  brutality  of 
the  Moor.  But  the  young  wife's  affection  is  not 
shaken  ;  "her  love  doth  so  approve  him,  that  even 
his  stubbornness,  his  checks  and  frowns,  have  grace 
and  favor  in  them."     She  never  dreams  of  blaming 


112  STELLA. 

or  reproaching  him ;  her  whole  thoughts  are  en- 
grossed with  plans  to  win  him  back.  She  rushes  to 
Iago  in  a  paroxysm  of  agony,  and  cries  out, 

"  0,  good  Iago  ! 
What  shall  I  do  to  win  my  lord  again  ? 
Good  friend,  go  to  him  !  for,  by  this  light  of  heaven, 
I  know  not  how  I  lost  him  !     Here  I  kneel : 
If  e'er  my  will  did  trespass  'gainst  his  love, 
Either  in  discourse  of  thought  or  actual  deed ; 
Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears,  or  any  sense, 
Delighted  them  in  any  other  form ; 
Or,  that  I  do  not  yet,  and  ever  did, 
And  ever  will,  —  though  he  do  shake  me  off 
To  beggarly  divorcement,  —  love  him  dearly, 
Comfort  forswear  me  !  Unkindness  may  do  much; 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life, 
But  never  taint  my  love  !  " 

Stella's  utterance  of  these  lines  was  sublime  in  its 
pathos.  As  the  kneeling  girl  was  raised  by  Mrs. 
Fairfax,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  speech,  the  latter 
could  not  refrain  from  whispering  "  Good  !  good  ! 
beautifully  given  !     You  are  indeed  an  actress  !  " 

The  intention  was  most  kind,  but  its  effect  un- 
fortunate. The  encomium  recalled  Stella  to  herself. 
It  broke  the  dream  ;  she  was  Desdemona  no  longer. 
She  suddenly  became  constrained  and  awkward ;  it 
was  fortunate  that  the  scene  drew  rapidly  to  its 
close. 

The  exceeding  length  of  the  play  requires  the 
omission  of  a  most  charming  dialogue  between  Emi- 
lia and  Desdemona,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  fourth 
act,  —  one  which  is  essential  to  the  perfect  develop- 
ment of  Desdemona's  character. 


STELLA.  113 

In  the  fifth  act,  Desdemona  is  beheld  asleep.  She 
is  waked  by  Othello's  bending  over  her  to  taste 

*  The  balmy  breath  that  doth  almost  persuade 
Justice  to  break  her  sword." 

Her  terror,  the  vehement  affirmations  of  her  inno- 
cence, her  frantic  pleadings  for  a  few  moments  more 
of  life,  make  up  the  scene.  Stella  was  not  prepared 
for  the  violence  with  which  Mr.  Tennent  thrust  the 
pillow  over  her  face,  holding  it  firmly  on  either  side. 
Her  stifled  shrieks  might  well  sound  natural  to  the 
audience  ;  she  felt  as  though  she  were  suffocating  in 
reality.  But  the  more  she  struggled,  the  more 
tightly  the  unreflecting  tragedian  pressed  upon  her 
mouth.  It  was  her  duty  to  lie  still  before  he  could 
relinquish  his  hold.  Well  was  it  that  Emilia's  voice 
at  the  chamber  door  required  him  to  reply.  Poor 
Stella  lay  with  the  pillow  over  her  face  ;  and,  being 
dead,  or  nearly  so,  to  the  audience,  she  dared  not 
move.  In  a  choking  tone,  by  no  means  simulated, 
she  groaned  out,  in  advance  of  her  cue,  the  few 
words  that  cause  Emilia  to  fly  to  her  mistress.  Mrs. 
Fairfax  not  only  removed  the  pillow,  but  placed  the 
young  girl  in  a  more  comfortable  position. 

Stella  could  now  lie  still,  and  listen  to  the  scene. 
She  expected  to  remain  in  the  same  attitude  until 
the  curtain  fell ;  but  Othello,  when  the  certainty  of 
Desdemona's  innocence  was  forced  upon  him,  sprang 
to  her  side,  seized  her  in  his  arms,  half  dragged  her 
from  the  bed,  and  sank  upon  the  ground  himself, 
leaving  her  head  hanging  over  the  side  of  the  couch. 
Her  long  hair  swept  the  floor  ;  he  wound  his  fin- 
gers in  the  tresses,  and  pressed  them  to  his  lips,  and 


114  STELLA. 

moaned  aloud.  The  picture  was,  no  doubt,  one  that 
Mr.  Tennent  had  well  studied,  and  certainly  it  was 
very  beautiful,  very  truthful.  Its  effect  upon  the 
luckless  representative  of  Desdemona  was  entirely 
disregarded. 

The  blood  rushed  to  her  head  until  her  brain 
seemed  bursting,  crushed  by  a  mountain-load.  Her 
senses  were  leaving  her ;  it  was  with  the  great- 
est difficulty  that  she  could  repress  a  cry.  Every 
instant  appeared  an  hour  ;  she  could  no  longer  dis- 
tinguish the  language  declaimed  in  her  very  ears  ; 
she  heard  only  a  confused  sound.  She  could  en- 
dure no  more  J  she  tried  to  groan,  to  move,  but 
in  vain.  When  the  curtain  descended,  she  was 
found  unconscious. 

Mr.  Finch  was  in  the  act  of  carrying  her  to  her 
dressing-room,  when  remembrance  slowly  returned. 
For  some  time  she  could  neither  stand  nor  speak. 
She  was  wholly  unable  to  respond  to  the  summons 
before  the  curtain.  An  apology  was  made,  and  her 
absence  accounted  for  by  the  plea  of  indisposition. 
Mrs.  Fairfax  had,  fortunately,  some  knowledge  of 
the  newly  discovered  and  most  efficacious  treatment 
of  apoplexy  (which  the  attack  resembled);  she 
seized  a  jug  of  water,  and  poured  it  from  a  height 
upon  the  head  of  the  prostrate  girl.  Stella  gradu- 
ally revived,  and  was  soon  able  to  reassure  the  terri- 
fied Mattie  by  a  few  affectionate  words.  Soon  after, 
the  young  girl  was  conveyed  to  her  home. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

An  Energizing  Will  Conquering  Physical  Prostration.  —  The 
Actor's  Private  Sufferings  set  aside.  —  Rehearsal  of  Lady  of 

Lyons. Mystery  that  enveloped  Mrs.  Pottle's  Straying  into 

the  Profession.  —  Her  Peculiar  Attainments.  — Amusing  Ec- 
centricities.—  Literal  Translation  of  the  Eminent  Tragedian's 
Commands — Merriment  of  the  Actors. —  Wrath  of  Mr.  Ten- 
nent. — Mrs.  Pottle's  Efforts  to  "Back  Up."  — Fish's  Ex- 
uberant Delight.  —  Company  assembled  in  Green-Room  for 
Reading  of  JVew  Play.  —  Murmurs. —  The  Author's  Entrance. 

—  The  Reading.  —  Disrespectful  Treatment  of  Mr.  Percy  by 

his  Auditors.  —  Distribution  of  Parts. Mrs.  Pottle's  Queenly 

Honors.  —  Mr.  Percy's  Discomposure.  —  Disparaging  Re- 
marks and  Complaints.  —  Perdita  redeems  her  Promise.  — 
The  Young  Ballet-Girl's  View  of  Life  and  Death.  —  Rainy 
Evening.  —  Skyey  Influences.  —  The  Fictitious  Bouquet.  — 
The  Tragedian's  Abstraction.  —  Involuntary  Asides  of  Claude. 

—  Mr.  Martin.  —  Mind  over  Matter. —  Which  is  Victorious 
in  an  Actor's  Life.  —  Stella's  Personation  of  the  Lady  of 
Lyons.  —  Inevitable  Shortcomings  of  a  JVovice.  —  The  Press 
Aroused.  —  Inconstancy  of  the  Public.  —  A  JVew  Idol  lifted 
to  Lydia  Talbot's  Pedestal.  —  Honeyed  Poison.  —  Ingratitude 
the  Consequence  of  Sudden  Brilliant  Success.  —  Its  Cure. 

Very  weary  were  the  eyes  that  Stella  unclosed  on 
the  morrow.  "Another  morning!  0,  that  I  could 
rest !  "  And  she  turned  upon  her  pillow,  yielding 
for  an  instant  to  a  delicious  drowsiness.  But  the 
multitudinous  occupations  of  the  day  crowded  upon 
her  remembrance  ;  her  energizing  will  conquered 
physical  lassitude  ;  she  sprang  up  with  a  bound.     A 


116  STELLA. 

dull,  heavy  pain,  the  consequence  of  her  last  night's 
misadventure,  still  lingered  about  her  head.  But, 
she  was  now  an  actress  I  Private  sufferings,  private 
grievances,  all  private  emotions,  must  be  swept  aside 
before  the  public  servitude  to  which  she  had  enslaved 
herself. 

The  Lady  of  Lyons  would  be  rehearsed  at  ten 
o'clock  ;  the  reading  of  a  new  play  was  announced 
to  take  place  in  the  green-room  at  twelve,  —  a  drama 
which  was  to  be  performed  on  Friday,  for  Mr.  Ten- 
nent's  benefit,  and  this  was  Wednesday.  The  hour 
for  rehearsal  arrived  only  too  soon.  To  Stella's  de- 
light, she  found  that  Mrs.  Fairfax  enacted  Madame 
Deschappelles.  Claude's  widowed  mother  was  in- 
trusted to  the  delineation  of  an  odd-looking,  shriv- 
elled-up  little  woman,  at  whose  wiry  motions,  penny- 
trumpet  voice,  and  original  readings,  Stella  could 
hardly  repress  her  mirth. 

This  singular  personage  familiarly  seized  her  hand 
behind  the  scenes,  and  glibly  accosted  her  :  "  How 
do,  my  dear  ?  I  ought  to  know  you,  since  you  're 
to  be  one  of  us.     Made  a  hit,  I  hear  ;  —  glad  of  it ; 

—  good-looking  ;  —  tolerable  figure  ;  —  fine   voice  ; 

—  passion  for  the  stage,  no  doubt ;  — just  the  case 
with  me  ;  —  nothing  like  it,  I  say  ;  —  can't  exist 
without  acting  —  it 's  meat  and  drink.  Nobody  here 
to  introduce  me  ;  —  my  name 's  Pottle,  —  second  old 
woman  of  the  establishment." ' 

How  Mrs.  Pottle  strayed  into  a  profession  for 
which  she  possessed  not  a  single  qualification,  was 
a  mystery.  Engagements  she  obtained  through  her 
willingness  to  accept  the  smallest  of  salaries,  with- 
out stipulating  about  parts.      Her  most  remarkable 


STELLA.  lit 

attainment  was  a  faculty  of  transmuting,  by  a  spe- 
cies of  mental  alchemy,  sublime  sentiments  into 
commonplace  absurdities ;  of  unidealizing  the  most 
elevated  characters  by  her  prosaic  personation.  She 
often  declared  her  determination  to  render  herself 
intelligible  to  her  audience.  It  was  not  unusual  for 
her  to  search  out  in  a  dictionary  the  choice  words  of 
her  role,  and,  for  the  author's  expression,  substitute 
the  lexicon  definition.  If  the  prompter  remonstrated, 
she  indignantly  asked  how  the  people  were  to  under- 
stand what  she  was  talking  about,  if  she  adhered  to 
the  text ;  she  did  not  comprehend  it  herself,  —  how 
should  they  ?  Her  literal  mind  converted  everything 
into  matter  of  fact ;  even  technical  stage  directions 
were  all  translated  aupied  de  la  lettre.  A  rehearsal 
seldom  passed  during  which  her  ludicrous  idiosyn- 
crasy did  not  create  an  uproar  of  merriment. 

She  was  re-summoned  to  the  stage  just  as  she  was 
addressing  Stella.  Mrs.  Pottle  held  in  great  awe 
the  pompous  Mr.  Tennent.  Afraid  to  approach  hirn 
too  nearly,  she  frisked  about  him  with  timorous  move- 
ments, and  was  constantly  in  his  way,  barely  escap- 
ing the  wide  sweep  of  his  arm,  or  his  huge  stride. 

"  Fall  down  left,"  ordered  the  tragedian,  crossing 
into  the  right-hand  corner.  At  this  command,  Mrs. 
Pottle  soberly  gathered  her  garments  around  her, 
and  gently  laid  herself  down  on  the  left  of  the  stage. 

Shouts  of  laughter  resounded  on  every  side.  Mr. 
Tennent's  back  was  turned,  but  Fisk's  caper  of  de- 
light, as  he  remarked,  "There,  she's  at  it  again! 
An't  it  fun  to  have  Pottle  rehearsing  ?  "  caused  the 
actor  to  look  around. 

When  he  marched  up  to  where  she  meekly  lay, 


118  STELLA. 

Mrs.  Pottle  was  in  mortal  dread  that  he  was  about 
to  trample  upon  her  ;  but  she  dared  not  move. 

"  Will  you  have  done  with  your  fooleries,  woman  ? 
What  do  you  mean  by  lying  there  ?  "  he  bellowed  out. 

"  You  told  me  to  fall  down  left"  whined  Mrs. 
Pottle  ;  "  it  was  more  convenient  lying  down  just  for 
the  business  in  the  morning.  I  '11  make  you  the  fall 
all  right  at  night,  never  you  fear  !  " 

The  dignity  of  Mr.  Tennent  was  in  decided  peril, 
but  he  recovered  himself  before  it  was  lowered  by 
any  mirthful  manifestation.  ■  "  Place  yourself  on  the 
left  hand,  towards  the  corner — that 's  what  I  meant." 

Mrs.  Pottle  rose  with  alacrity,  and  obeyed.  She 
was  strongly  tempted  to  argue  with  Mr.  Tennent 
about  the  correctness  of  his  expressions,  but  he  was 
too  august  a  personage  to  be  taken  to  task. 

A  short  time  afterwards,  she  stationed  herself 
directly  between  him  and  the  person  whom  he  was 
addressing.  Mr.  Tennent  gave  her  a  slight  admoni- 
tory shove,  at  the  same  time  saying,  "  Back  up,  my 
good  woman !     Back  up  !  " 

u  Back  up  ?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Pottle,  in  a  puzzled 
tone.     "  Back  up !  0,  dearie  me  !  " 

She  caught  the  eye  of  the  mischievous  Fisk.  He 
made  a  pantomimic  action  in  imitation  of  an  indig- 
nant Grimalkin. 

Mrs.  Pottle  nodded  thankfully,  and  essayed  to 
copy  the  feline  attitude. 

"Didn't  you  hear  me  tell  you  to  get  out  of  the 
way  ?"  repeated  Tennent.  "What  are  you  doing 
there  ?  " 

"  I  'm  backing  up  the  best  I  can,"  faltered  Mrs. 
Pottle,  vigorously  jerking  up  her  shoulders.  "  Only 
I  haven't  quite  got  the  knack  of  it  yet." 


STELLA.  ,  119 

Fisk  turned  a  somerset,  in  the  exuberance  of  his 
delight. 

Mr.  Tennent's  wrath  only  augmented  Mrs.  Pottle's 
confusion,  and  increased  her  vagaries.  Claude  enter- 
tained a  most  unfilial  desire  to  suppress  his  mother 
without  ceremony. 

When  rehearsal  was  over,  the  company  reluctantly 
collected  in  the  green-room.  Stella  was  surprised  at 
the  discontented  tone  of  their  remarks.  What  was 
the  use,  they  asked,  of  Mr.  Belton's  insisting  on  the 
old-fashioned  idea  of  a  green-room  reading  ?  Hun- 
dreds of  theatres  got  up  new  plays  without  the  actors 
being  bothered  with  anything  but  their  own  parts  ; 
scarcely  any  of  them  had  the  remotest  idea  of  the 
plot.  u  What  's  the  play  about  ?  "  was  a  common 
question,  after  it  had  been  enacted  for  a  week.  And 
did  n't  everything  go  on  just  as  well  ?  Leave  the 
plot  to  the  audience  ;  the  actors  had  enough  to  do  in 
attending  to  their  own  characters. 

The  new  drama  required  four  female  representa- 
tives, —  Stella,  Mrs.  Fairfax,  Mrs.  Pottle,  and  Miss 
Doran.  This  was  Stella's  first  introduction  into  the 
green-room,  though  she  had  once  or  twice  before 
stood  at  the  threshold.  She  seated  herself  beside 
Mrs.  Fairfax.  Mrs.  Pottle  crowded  her  diminutive 
person  into  a  small  compass  on  the  other  side,  and 
drew  from  her  pocket  a  mammoth  woollen  stocking, 
partially  knitted.  Mrs.  Fairfax  occupied  herself  in 
hemming  lace  ruffles.  Miss  Doran  scribbled  a  note. 
Mr.  Martin  lay  moaning  on  one  sofa ;  Mr.  Doran  was 
stretched  at  full  length  on  another.  Mr.  Swain  whit- 
tled a  stick,  as  he  leaned  over  Miss  Doran's  chair, 
and  talked  to  her  in  whispers.     Mr.  Concklin  prac- 


120  STELLA. 

tised  attitudes  before  the  mirror.  Mr.  Tennent  was 
forced  to  absent  himself,  owing  to  the  severe  indis- 
position of  his  wife. 

Several  members  of  the  company  were  venting 
their  impatience  and  displeasure  in  no  very  meas- 
ured terms,  when  Mr.  Belton  entered,  accompanied 
by  the  author.  Mr.  Percy  was  formally  introduced. 
Mr.  Belton  drew  a  table  into  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  placed  a  chair  for  the  fluttered  dramatist.  After 
he  opened  his  MS.,  he  looked  around,  as  though  about 
to  utter  a  few  words,  by  way  of  preface ;  but  the 
intention  was  crushed  in  embryo.  He  bent  over  his 
book  again,  and  commenced  reading  "Love's  Tri- 
umphs." Not  one  third  of  the  pages  had  been  turned, 
when  a  loud  yawn  from  Mr.  Doran  was  followed  by 
a  general  titter.  Could  it  have  escaped  Mr.  Percy's 
ears  ?  He  gave  no  sign  of  hearing.  A  second  and 
a  third  yawn  followed.  Then  Mr.  Martin  groaned 
aloud.  The  author  looked  up,  and  looked  down 
again,  and  paused. 

"Do  not  be  disturbed,"  said  Mr.  Belton,  apologet- 
ically. "  Mr.  Martin  is  a  great  sufferer.  We  are 
all  so  accustomed  to  hear  him  complain  that  we 
hardly  notice  him." 

Mr.  Percy  proceeded.  He  had  now  reached  what 
he  considered  a  magnificent  situation  in  the  third 
act.  His  delivery  became  more  animated ;  he  was 
even  betrayed  into  a  few  gesticulations.  Miss  Doran 
giggled.  Mr.  Percy  laid  down  the  book  abruptly. 
The  manager  considered  it  prudent  to  remain  obliv- 
ious of  the  interruption,  and  the  author  was  com- 
pelled to  continue.  He  now  read  in  a  lower,  more 
subdued  tone,  and  constantly  looked  up  to  watch 


STELLA.  121 

the  countenances  of  his  unreceptive  auditors.  Upon 
one  face  alone  he  perused  neither  weariness  nor  con- 
tempt ;  one  beautiful  face  was  turned  to  his  in  rapt 
attention.  From  that  moment  he  no  longer  heard 
the  moans  of  Mr.  Martin,  the  yawns  of  Mr.  Doran, 
the  whispered  criticisms  of  the  actors.  Stella  was 
his  entire  audience  ;  and,  when  she  lifted  her  hand- 
kerchief to  hide  a  starting  tear,  the  young  poet  felt 
his  brows  wreathed  with  invisible  laurels. 

The  play  was  gemmed  with  noble  flashes  of  elo- 
quence, but  it  lacked  broad  dramatic  effects.  It 
was  fitted  for  the  enactment  of  poets  before  an  audi- 
ence of  poets. 

When  the  reading  was  over,  the  parts  were  dis- 
tributed by  Mr.  Belton.  Stella  was  to  personate  the 
heroine  ;  Miss  Doran,  her  rival ;  Mrs.  Fairfax,  the 
mother  of  the  latter;  and  Mrs.  Pottle  —  Mrs.  Pottle, 
when  her  part  was  handed  to  her,  exclaimed,  with  a 
puny  shriek,  "  Bless  us  I  if  I  an't  a  queen  !  It  will 
just  ruin  me  to  get  cotton  velvet  and  foil-paper 
enough  for  a  robe  and  crown." 

"  You!  have  they  given  Queen  Eleanor  to  you  ?  " 
said  the  author,  greatly  discomposed. 

Mr.  Belton  silenced  him  by  a  polite  "  I  have  cast 
the  play  to  the  best  advantage,  according  to  the 
strength  of  my  company.  You  have  two  heroines, 
and  two  old  women ;  of  the  latter,  Mrs.  Fairfax 
takes  the  first,  Mrs.  Pottle  the  second." 

The  company  were  dismissed,  and  Mr.  Percy  was 
doomed  to  listen  to  not  a  few  disparaging  remarks 
and  complaints,  as  they  departed.  The  new  play  was 
to  be  rehearsed  after  the  rehearsal  of  Evadne,  on  the 
ensuing  morning. 


122  STELLA. 

The  author  had  been  presented  to  Mr.  Tennent 
by  an  influential  editorial  friend.  The  play  was  ac- 
cepted chiefly  with  a  view  to  propitiate  a  Nestor  of 
the  press. 

.Perdita  redeemed  her  promise ;  the  lace  was 
brought  in  due  time.  Mattie,  who  received  it,  en- 
treated her  to  sit  down  and  rest,  for  she  was  breath- 
less from  the  exertion  of  running.  Her  wan  face 
and  drooping  eyelids  testified  that  she  had  not  slept 
since  she  received  the  order. 

"  What  a  hard  life  you  do  lead ! "  said  Mattie, 
compassionately. 

"  Not  harder  than  that  of  many  others,  and  it  will 
not  last  always.  When  I  am  troubled  and  worn  out, 
I  have  sweet  visions  of  another  life,  where  rest  and 
peace  will  be  given.  My  mother  has  found  that  life, 
and  so  shall  we,  in  good  time  ;  we  have  only  to  wait 
patiently,  and  do  our  best." 

"  Poor  child  !  is  death  the  best  thing  you  can  find 
in  life  ? " 

"  My  mother  believed  it  to  be  the  best  thing  in 
hers  ;  she  said  so  in  her  dying  hour.  She  gave  me 
counsel  that  comes  back  to  me  when  I  am  sorrowful. 
I  often  hear  her  voice  as  plainly  as  though  she  were 
near  me  ;    I  often  think  she  is  near  me.*     People 

*  "  Have  not  we  too  ?    Yes,  we  have 

Answers,  and  we  know  not  whence  ; 
Echoes  from  beyond  the  grave, 
Recognized  intelligence. 
"  Such  rebounds  our  inward  ear 
Catches  sometimes  from  afar  ; 
Listen,  ponder,  hold  them  dear, 
For  of  God  —  of  God  they  are  !  " 

Wordsworth. 


STELLA.  123 

laugh,  and  call  me  superstitious,  and  a  fool,  when  I 
say  so  ;  but  I  am  sure  of  her  presence.  I  know  that 
our  heavenly  Father  permits  her  to  watch  over  her 
poor  orphans.  When  I  do  a  good  action  it  is  my 
mother's  spirit  that  prompts  me.  Often  I  abstain 
from  a  wrong  one  because  the  eyes  of  God  and  my 
mother  are  upon  me.  And  God  would  seem  far  off, 
but  for  my  mother,  through  whom  he  is  near." 

"  You  will  almost  persuade  me  that  you  are  happy, 
in  spite  of  this  wretched  kind  of  life." 

"  I  am  too  busy  to  be  miserable.  Let  me  help  you 
to  sew  on  that  lace.  It  is  getting  late  ;  you  will  not 
have  it  finished.     What  a  beautiful  dress  !  " 

Mattie  accepted  the  offer  for  the  sake  of  retaining 
the  young  girl  near  her,  and  conversing  with  her. 
This  snowy  dove,  "trooping  with  crows,"  bore  in 
her  mouth  an  olive-branch  for  the  great  Ark  of  the 
Hereafter. 

"  God  for  his  service  needeth  not  proud  work  of  human  skill ; 
They  please  him  best  who  labor  most  in  peace  to  do  his  will ! " 

Stella  went  to  the  theatre,  that  night,  through  a 
pelting  storm.  In  common  with  all  nervous  temper- 
aments, she  was  subject  to  skyey  influences ;  the 
atmosphere  had  a  depressing  effect  on  her  spirits. 
The  costly  attire  of  the  haughty  beauty  of  Lyons 
was  assumed  almost  in  silence.  Indeed,  there  was 
an  unwonted  quietude  about  the  whole  establish- 
ment. Even  Fisk  shouted  his  "last  musi-ic-ic/"  in 
a  less  hilarious  tone  than  customary. 

She  did  not  descend  to  the  stage  until  summoned, 
just  before  the  rising  of  the  curtain. 

Floy  was  reconnoitring  the  audience  through  the 


124  STELLA. 

secret  aperture.  When  he  caught  sight  of  Stella, 
he  ran  up  to  her  ;  but  his  invariable  "  Such  a  house  ! 
such  a  house  !  "  was  followed  by  a  doleful  "  0  !  0  ! 
0 ! "  and  an  expressive  wringing  of  the  hands, 
instead  of  the  usual  lively  friction. 

"Got  your  bokette?"  asked  Fisk,  pertly. 

"  My  bouquet  ?  No,  I  have  none.  I  quite  forgot 
that  Pauline  should  have  one/7 

"  Did  n't  your  beau  buy  you  one  ?  What  a  sell ! 
Give  him  his  walking-ticket.  Well,  here  's  the  beau- 
tiful flowers  sent  by  Claude  to  Miss  Pauline.  I  'm 
his  messenger.  He  did  n't  pay  me  nothing,  though  ; 
he  left  that  to  you."  And  he  thrust  into  her  hand  a 
soiled,  coarsely-made  bunch  of  artificial  flowers. 

Stella  received  them  with  reluctance  and  vexa- 
tion, but  there  was  no  time  for  remonstrance.  The 
prompter's  warning  bell  had  sounded ;  she  took  her 
seat  in  Madame  Deschapelles'  boudoir,  and  bent 
over  the  fictitious  nosegay  as  though  it  exhaled  the 
most  delicious  perfume. 

The  curtain  rose.  How  cheerless  looked  those 
rows  of  half-empty  boxes  !  The  play  had  been  worn 
threadbare :  that  circumstance,  combined  with  the 
tempestuous  weather,  accounted  for  the  meagre 
audience.  Stella  was  only  welcomed  by  a  faint 
round,  which  chilled  rather  than  inspirited  her. 
During  the  first  two  acts,  there  was  nothing  striking 
in  her  performance  ;  it  was  ladylike,  but  cold. 

The  acting  of  Mr.  Tennent  was  unusually  tame. 
His  manner  was  hurried  and  abstracted.  His 
thoughts  were  with  his  suffering  wife.  In  the  gar- 
den scene,  when  Claude  paints  to  Pauline  the  home 
to  which  he  would  lead  her,  Stella,  who  should  have 


STELLA.  125 

represented  the  entranced,  enamored  listener,  was 
perplexed  and  distressed  by  Mr.  Tennent's  involun- 
tary asides,  such  as  the  following : 

Claude.     " '  A  palace  lifting  to  eternal  summer  — 
(  The  doctor  —  the  doctor  at  the  wing)  — 
Its  marble  walls  from  out  a  glossy  bower 
Of —  {all  the  medicine  don't  help  her)  — 
Of  coolest  foliage,  musical  with  birds, 
Whose  songs  should  syllable  — 
(I  wonder  if  she  *s  worse !)  —  thy  name  !  * 

What  can  he  want  ?  I  must  come  to  cues  —  don't 
mind  the  cutting." 

Mr.  Tennent's  eyes  had  wandered  from  Pauline's 
face  to  that  of  the  medical  gentleman  standing  at 
the  side  scenes.  Claude  now  mangled  the  author 
ad  libitum,  and,  curtailing  his  courtship  within  the 
narrowest  limits,  brought  the  scene  to  a  close,  and 
hurried  Pauline  from  the  stage. 

As  Stella  made  her  exit  through  the  door  of  Ma- 
dame Deschappelles'  residence,  she  encountered  two 
carpenters  carrying  Mr.  Martin  in  a  chair.  The 
inclement  weather  had  augmented  his  rheumatic 
affection  ;  he  appeared  to  be  suffering  excruciatingly. 
The  carpenters  placed  the  chair  at  the  entrance  he 
designated. 

Fisk  stood  behind  the  invalid,  making  thrusts  at 
imaginary  individuals  with  a  pair  of  foils. 

"  Lift  me  up,  boys,"  said  Mr.  Martin.  "  Fisk,  you 
young  rascal,  be  ready  with  those  foils  ! " 

The  actor  was  raised  to  his  feet  with  some  diffi- 
culty ;  but,  the  moment  his  cue  was  given,  he  seized 
the  foils,  walked  firmly  on  the  stage,  and  a  few  min- 
utes afterwards  was  engaged  in  an  active  combat 
11 


126  STELLA. 

with  Claude,  who  found  that  he  could  not  disarm 
him  without  exerting  his  utmost  skill. 

"  Well,  and  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  asked 
Mrs.  Fairfax,  who  stood  beside  Stella,  watching  the 
combatants. 

"Wonderful,  most  wonderful !  ?' 

"  Mind  over  matter !  You  see  which  is  victorious 
in  an  actor's  life.  Would  a  single  individual  in  that 
audience  believe,  on  hearsay,  what  we  have  just  wit- 
nessed ?  Yet  every  theatre  can  aiford  instances  of 
equal  or  more  marvellous  power  of  will." 

The  drama  of  the  Lady  of  Lyons  has  been  so  per- 
tinaciously hunted  down  by  critics  that  there  is  no 
temptation  to  dwell  upon  its  striking  situations. 
The  author  has  planned  a  series  of  prominent 
points,  all  as  unmistakable  as  sign-posts  on  a  turn- 
pike ;  a  succession  of  dramatic  traps,  in  which  the 
hands  of  audiences  are  invariably  taken  captive. 
These  Stella  could  not  miss.  It  was  only  in  the 
fifth  act  that  she  rose  above  her  author,  and  filled 
out  and  perfected  his  incomplete  portraiture.  The 
gorgeous  garments  with  which  Pauline  had  be- 
decked herself,  in  the  days  of  her  untamed  pride, 
were  exchanged  for  a  white  muslin  robe,  fastened 
with  bunches  of  purple  violets,  —  the  emblems  of 
mourning,  —  and  a  few  of  these  grief-betokening 
flowers  were  scattered  among  her  dishevelled  locks. 

That  Pauline  could  not  recognize  her  husband, 
after  an  absence  of  two  years,  because  he  wore  a 
mustache,  was  habited  in  a  military  dress,  and  his 
presence  was  unanticipated,  seemed  an  improbability 
which  Stella  reconciled  by  never  lifting  her  eyes 
from   the   ground,  as  she  addressed   him  in  heart- 


STELLA.  12t 

broken  accents.  And,  when  he  spoke,  her  sobs 
drowned  the  tones  of  the  loved  and  well-known 
voice. 

That  Pauline's  confidential  communication  could 
have  been  made  in  a  room  occupied  by  her  father, 
mother,  affianced  husband,  the  notary,  etc.,  is  an 
obvious  absurdity  when  the  words  of  the  text  are 
declaimed,  according  to  custom,  in  an  elevated  tone. 
The  credulity  of  the  spectators  is  too  largely  drawn 
upon  when  they  are  required  to  believe  that  only 
two  of  the  party  present  are  not  afflicted  with 
deafness.  But  every  word  that  Stella  uttered  was 
spoken  in  a  whisper  which,  though  distinct  to  the 
audience,  conveyed  the  impression  that  it  reached 
Claude's  ear  alone.  Thus  unwonted  reality  was  im- 
parted to  a  scene  which,  albeit  touching  and  effect- 
ive, offends  against  probability. 

Stella's  personation  of  the  proud  beauty  was*  by 
no  means  faultless.  It  was  occasionally  marred  by 
too  rapid  transitions,  lacking  artistic  smoothness, 
an  exuberance  of  gesticulation,  an  absence  of  re- 
pose, —  the  inevitable  failings  of  a  novice.  Yet  her 
spontaneity,  impulsive  ardor,  flexibility  of  features 
and  motion,  her  sculpturesque  grace,  quickened  that 
weather-dulled  audience,  and  charmed  them  into  for- 
getfulness  of  her  shortcomings.  The  sovereignty  of 
genius  made  its  presence  felt,  and  compelled  homage 
even  from  her  unwilling  associates. 

Stella's  debut  and  second  appearance  had  only 
been  chronicled  in  the  public  journals  by  a  few  stereo- 
typed phrases,  emanating  probably  from  the  licensed 
puffer  of  the  theatre ;  but  now  the  clarion  note  of 
praise  was  loudly  sounded.     The  press  awoke  from 


128  STELLA. 

its  apathy ;  the  tide  of  popular  approval  bore  her 
aloft  on  its  triumphant  waves.  The  fickle  public  had 
already  forgotten  the  worshipped  Lydia  Talbot,  and 
with  ready  hands  lifted  a  new  idol  upon  her  empty 
pedestal. 

Stella  began  to  taste  the  intoxicating  sweetness 
of  adulation  —  that  honeyed  poison,  so  pernicious  to 
the  untried  soul,  so  tasteless  to  the  absorbed  in- 
tellectual artist,  when  she  becomes  truly  enamored 
of  her  vocation.  Complimentary  letters,  poems,  elab- 
orate laudatory  notices,  daily  greeted  her  eyes.  At 
first  she  read  them  with  avidity,  and  treasured  them  up 
with  proud  satisfaction.  Of  floral  gifts  she  received 
almost  hourly  offerings  ;  but  her  mind  was  so  much 
engrossed  by  her  professional  duties  that  the  flatter- 
ing testimonials,  which  for  a  day  enchanted  by  their 
novelty,  quickly  lost  all  value.  Critiques  and  letters 
were  glanced  over,  not  read ;  bouquets  consigned 
unexamined  to  Mattie's  care  ;  all  flattering  demon- 
strations were  treated  with  strange  ingratitude,  but 
it  was  the  ingratitude  of  a  preoccupied  mind,  which 
had  no  leisure  for  thankfulness  —  a  dangerous  mental 
state,  too  surely  developed  by  sudden  and  brilliant 
success,  but  oftentimes  corrected  by  the  vicissitudes 
to  which  the  most  favored  artist  .is  inevitably  sub- 
jected, somewhat  later  in  her  career. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Cast  of  Evadne. Miss  Dor  an.  —  Thunder  and  Pap.  —  Jeal- 
ousy. —  First  Rehearsal  of  the  New  Play.  —  The  Youthful 
Author  and  Actress.  —  A  Strange  Phase  of  Professional  Life. 

—  Pegasus  Struggling  with  the  Plough.  —  Ruthless  Suppression 
of  Poetic  Gems.  — -  Miss  Doran' s  Comments  upon  the  Neo- 
phytes.— First  Entrance  of  Angry  Passions  into  a  Gentle  Heart. 

—  A  Decree  of  Providencey  and  its  Object.  —  Representation 
of  Evadne.  —  Miss  Doran' s  Persecutions  of  the  Novice.  — 
Grand  Climax  of  the  Play.  —  Miss  Doran  in  the  Hall  of 
Statues.  —  Her  Cruel  Plot.  —  Bitterness  of  the  Rival  Actresses. 

—  The  Poem.  —  Revery  of  the  Young  Actress.  —  Unconscious 
Betrayal  of  a  Dawning  Sentiment.  —  Night  Vigils.  —  Palms 
of  Honor  for  the  Young  Poet  from  the  Hands  of  the  Actress.  — 
Last  Rehearsal  of  New  Play.  —  A  Stronger  Hope  weighed 
against  the  Ambition  of  the  Dramatist.  —  Conspiracy  of  the 
Actors.  —  The  Wreath  of  White  Roses.  —  The  New  Drama 
performed.  —  Action  of  the  Play.  —  The  Author  behind  the 
Scenes.  —  The  Play's  Success  in  Peril.  —  Saved  for  a  Time 
by  Stella  and  Miss  Doran.  —  Reendangered  by  the  Troubled 
Tragedian.  —  Mrs.  Pottle's  Representation  of  Majesty.  —  Evi- 
dence of  her  Laudable  Pursuits  in  the  Green-Room.  —  Bois- 
terous Merriment  of  the  Audience.  —  Inquiry  of  a  Wag.  — 
Vagaries  of  Crestfallen  Royalty.  —  Agonies  of  the  Author.  — 
Mr.  Doran's  Admonition  to  his  Daughter.  —  Mrs.  Pottle's 
Conflagration.  —  Panic  and  General  Confusion.  —  Queries  of 
the  Manager.  —  A  Ludicrous  Discovery.  —  Unfortunate  Mrs. 
Pottle. —  The  Play's  Unanticipated  Termination. — &  Friend's 
Advice  to  the  Author.  —  His  Flight.  —  TJie  Young  Actress  at 
her  Chamber  Window. #  Recognition. 

The  cast  of  Evadne  was  as  follows  :     Mr.  Tennent 
personated  the  noble  Colonna,  brother  of  Evadne ; 


130  STELLA. 

Mr.  Swain  enacted  the  lover,  Vicentio ;  Mr.  Belton 
indulged  the  audience  with  an  amiable  and  irresistibly 
comic  assumption  of  the  licentious  and  remorseless 
villain  Ludovico ;  Mr.  Conklin  assumed  the  weak- 
minded  king ;  Stella  was  Evadne ;  Miss  Doran  em- 
bodied Olivia,  the  false  friend,  who 


meanly  crept 


Into  Evadne's  soft  and  trusting  heart, 
And  coiled  herself  around  her." 

This  young  lady  was  bred  to  the  stage,  and  had  been 
carefully  instructed  by  her  father,  the  "second  old 
man"  of  the  theatre,  in  all  its  conventionalities. 
Her  familiarity  with  traditional  "  stage  business  " 
almost  supplied  the  place  of  talent.  Her  acting  was 
bold  and  melodramatic',  but  lacked  delicacy  of  con- 
ception. She  was  often  boisterous,  never  intense. 
The  impress  of  a  reflecting  mind  was  wanting 
throughout  all  her  personations.  A  caustic  critic 
once  designated  her  performances  as  "a  mingling,  in 
equal  portions,  of  thunder  and  pap."  Her  personal 
attractions  inclined  to  the  Amazonian  order,  but  she 
possessed  in  a  high  degree  all  the  physical  elements 
of  beauty.  An  effective  piece  of  scene-painting  con- 
trasted with  a  finely-executed  portrait  in  oil,  would 
have  aptly  illustrated  the  distinctive  styles  of  Stella 
and  Miss  Doran. 

When  the  two  young  girls  (they  were  about  the 
same  age)  met  at  rehearsal,  the  petty  envy  of  a  nar- 
row mind  betrayed  itself  in  Miss  Doran's  manner. 
She  treated  the  "  novice  "  with  supreme  scorn,  sel- 
dom deigning  to  reply  to  her  remarks,  and  never 
losing  an  opportunity  of  shrugging  her  shoulders,  and 
indulging  in  a  short,  derisive  laugh,  if  Stella  appealed 


STELLA.  131 

to  the  stage-manager  for  instruction  when  the  busi- 
ness of  the  scene  chanced  to  be  particularly  com- 
plicated. 

If  there  were  any  truth  in  theatrical  reports,  Miss 
Doran  was  affianced  to  Mr.  Swain.  The  undisguised 
jealousy  which  she  evinced  when  his  vocation  forced 
him  to  enact  the  lover  of  another,  gave  coloring  to 
the  rumor. 

The  rehearsal  of  Evadne  concluded,  that  of  Love's 
Triumphs  commenced.  Mr.  Percy,  as  he  entered  on 
the  stage,  silently  bowed  to  the  company.  He  at 
once  singled  out  Stella.  While  the  prompter  was 
making  some  necessary  arrangements,  the  young 
author  ventured  to  address  her.  Mr.  Belton  broke 
up  the  brief  conference  by  summoning  him  to  his 
seat  at  the  manager's  table  ;  but  his  eyes  still  sent 
her  "  speechless  messages." 

The  prompter  held  one  copy  of  the  MS.,  Mr.  Percy 
another.  Strange  was  the  phase  of  theatrical  life 
which  now  revealed  itself  to  the  two  neophytes. 
The  presence  of  the  author  was  wholly  ignored  by 
the  murmuring  actors.  After  the  delivery  of  a  few 
lines,  some  malecontent  made  a  dubious  pause  ;  then 
came  queries  of  "  What  does  that  passage  mean  ?  " 
"  What 's  the  sense  of  that  ? "  followed  by  unreserved 
comments  upon  the  absurdity  of  certain  situations. 
Mr.  Percy  sat  paling  and  flushing,  writhing  beneath 
the  sharp  thrusts  inflicted  by  these  "  puny  whipsters," 
and  watching  Stella's  countenance,  as  though  one 
look  of  disapprobation  there  would  have  annihilated 
all  his  hopes.  Several  times  he  rose  from  his  chair 
and  endeavored  to  explain  ;  but  the  actors  were  pos- 
sessed with  the  idea  that  they  knew  what  he  intended 


132  STELLA. 

far  better  than  he  did  himself,  and  that  his  meaning 
was  sheer  nonsense.  He  resumed  his  seat  in  dumb 
mortification.  Ketch's  picture  of  Pegasus  struggling 
with  the  plough  was  brought  forcibly  to  his  mind. 
Mr.  Finch  proposed  to  "  cut "  certain  speeches.  Mr. 
Percy  started  up  again,  and  held  back  the  hand  armed 
with  its  inky  weapon  ;  those  were  the  gems  of  the 
play,  he  could  not  consent  to  have  them  suppressed. 
Mr.  Finch  looked  towards  Mr.  Belton ;  then,  without 
attempting  to  argue  with  the  perturbed  author,  ruth- 
lessly struck  his  pen  through  the  lines  over  which  the 
poet  had  labored  for  days,  over  which  he  had  gloried, 
which  he  had  pronounced  his  most  felicitous  effort. 
Mr.  Percy  ground  his  teeth  at  this  severing  of  the 
golden  locks  of  his  theatrical  offspring. 

Stella  and  Miss  Doran  were  rivals  in  the  new 
drama,  as  in  Evadne.  They  were  constantly  brought 
on  the  stage  together.  Miss  Doran  divided  her 
talents  for  tormenting  between  the  hapless  novi- 
tiates. When  not  engaged  in  rehearsing,  she  stood 
at  the  wing,  with  Mr.  Swain,  descanting  aloud  upon 
the  ignorance  and  egotism  of  all  novices  without  ex- 
ception, and  the  manifest  conceit  of  all  play- wrights. 

Stella  felt  her  cheeks  tingle,  and  she  became  con- 
scious of  more  wrathful  sensations  than  had  ever 
ruffled  the  smooth  current  of  her  life.  She  had  never 
imagined  that  so  much  anger  could  be  excited  within 
her  breast.  Is  it  not  in  accordance  with  Divine  order, 
a  decree  of  omniscient  Providence,  that  every  mortal 
is  thrown  into  that  situation  where  his  hidden  evils 
can  be  brought  forth  to  his  own  view,  that  lie  may 
know  them,  acknowledge  them,  struggle  against  them, 
and  put  them  away  f 


STELLA.  133 

When  rehearsal  ended,  Mr.  Percy  asked  permission 
to  accompany  Stella  to  her  home  ;  his  request  was 
not  denied. 

It  was  quite  late  .before  Stella  and  Mattie  left  their 
dwelling  for  the  theatre  that  night ;  but  Evadne  does 
not  appear  until  the  second  act.  Fisk  was  standing 
at  the  door  of  the  M  star  dressing-room/'  with  a 
bouquet  in  his  hand. 

"  Hera  's  a  nosegay  from  your  beau.  I  thought 
you  7d  catch  one,  by  and  by.  Who  7s  your  Claude, 
I  wonder !  There 's  a  little  billy  amongst  the  leaves ; 
don't  drop  him  out." 

Stella  made  a  signal  to  Mattie,  who  took  the 
flowers.  The  note  was  tossed  into  the  dressing-case, 
unopened. 

Stella  did  not  leave  her  room  that  evening  until 
she  was  summoned  to  the  stage.  Evadne  enters, 
gazing  upon  a  miniature.  Her  rapturous  reception 
proved  how  firmly  the  youthful  actress  was  estab 
lished  in  the  good  graces  of  her  audience.  Again, 
again,  and  again,  she  gracefully  bent  to  their  repeated 
plaudits.  Just  as  she  was  curtseying  for  the  fourth 
time,  she  heard  a  malicious  voice  exclaim  : 

11  Only  look  !  she  has  found  out  the  catchrapplause 
curtsey  already,  and  is  begging  for  more!11 

Stella  involuntarily  looked  around.  Miss  Doran 
stood  at  the  wing,  ready  to  appear  as  Olivia. 

The  latter  enters  at  the  close  of  Evadne's  'soliloquy. 
Most  assuredly  Miss  Doran  exhibited  her  thorough 
acquaintance  with  the  catch-applause  curtsey,  for, 
just  as  one  round  of  clapping  subsided,  she  com- 
menced a  new  inclination,  which  brought  down 
another  ;  repeating  the  wily  process  as  often  as  the 
12 


134  STELLA. 

audience  could  be  lured  to  prolong  their  greeting. 
The  bewitching  salutations  over,  Miss  Doran  pro- 
ceeded, with  artistic  self-possession,  to  "  back  up  the 
stage "  so  far  behind  Stella,  that  the  latter  was 
forced  to  turn  her  face  from  the  audience  whenever 
she  addressed  her.  Through  the  whole  scene  Miss 
Doran  maintained  this  position.  After  the  exchange 
of  the  pictures,  Olivia  makes  her  exit,  and  Vicentio 
enters.  Miss  Doran  stationed  herself  at  an  entrance 
where  she  could  overlook  the  entire  stage.  Her 
dark  eyes  flashed  with  hatred  as  Evadne  accosted 
Vicentio  thus  : 

*«  Are  you,  then,  come  at  last  ? —  Do  I  once  more 
Behold  my  bosom's  lord,  whose  tender  sight 
Is  necessary  to  my  happiness 
As  light  for  heaven  ?    My  Lord  !    Vicentio  ! 
I  blush  to  speak  the  transport  in  my  heart, 
But  I  am  rapt  to  see  you." 

And  when  Vicentio  gazed  on  Evadne  with  a  look  of 
un simulated  admiration,  and  gave  significant  utter- 
ance to  the  appropriate  lines, 

"  Let  me  peruse  the  face  where  loveliness 
Stays,  like  the  light  after  the  sun  is  set. 
Sphered  in  the  stillness  of  those  heaven-blue  eyes, 
The  soul  sits  beautiful  ;  the  high,  white  front, 
Smooth  as  the  brow  of  Pallas,  seems  a  temple 
Sacred  to  holy  thinking  ;  and  those  lips 
Wear  the  sweet  smile  of  sleeping  infancy, 
They  are  so  innocent !  " 

Miss  Doran  bit  her  own  lips  until  the  blood 
started. 

But  fruitlessly  she  attempted  to  distract  Stella's 


STELLA.  135 

attention,  or  force  taunting  remarks  upon  her  ears. 
Stella,  when  she  once  succeeded  in  throwing  herself 
into  a  character,  forgot  all  else. 

Miss  Doran  made  a  point  of  following  her  about 
behind  the  scenes,  endeavoring  to  convey,  by  her 
manner,  an  insolent  fear  that  Stella  would  imagine 
herself  Evadne  still,  and  hold  sweet  converse  with 
her  beloved  Vicentio.  The  novice  took  refuge  in  her 
dressing-room.  She  did  not  venture  forth  again 
except  when  required  upon  the  stage.  But  as  often 
as  she  appeared  before  the  audience,  her  eyes  in- 
variably encountered  the  sinister  gaze  of  Miss  Doran, 
at  the  wing.  In  spite  of  this  disturbing  influence, 
she  achieved  a  victory  far  transcending  her  former 
triumphs. 

Everybody  is  acquainted  with  the  grand  climax  of 
the  play,  when  Evadne  rushes  to  the  statue  of  her 
father,  and,  clasping  her  arms  around  its  neck,  bids 
the  king,  for  whom  he  died,  and  who  would  dishonor 
his  subject's  child,  to  take  her  thence,  if  he  dare! 
The  fifth  act,  in  which  this  scene  occurs,  represents 
a  vast  hall  in  Colonna's  palace,  lined  with  statues. 
Moonlight  streams  through  Gothic  windows,  and 
falls  upon  the  sculptured  forms.  Before  the  curtain 
rose,  Stella  stole  upon  the  stage  to  examine  the  stat- 
ues of  Evadne's  ancestors,  which  she  was  about  to 
describe  to  the  king.  She  desired  to  assure  herself 
of  their  locality.  As  she  passed  down  the  aisle, 
she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Miss  Doran,  who  was  stand- 
ing upon  the  pedestal  of  a  statue  which  supported 
Evadne's  father.  The  actress  leaped  down,  in  obvi- 
ous confusion.  Hastily  concealing  something  in  the 
folds  of  her  dress,  she  ran  towards  the  green-room. 


136  STELLA. 

Stella  had  cause  to  remember  the  circumstance  after- 
wards. There  was  no  time  for  her  minutely  to  exam- 
ine the  statues  before  the  curtain  rose. 

Evadne's  interview  with  her  brother  was  enacted 
with  the  dignified  composure  that  befitted  a  being 
firm  of  purpose,  and  sustained  by  the  conscious 
strength  of  innocence.  At  his  sister's  request, 
Colonna  conducts  the  king  to  her  presence,  and 
retires.  The  insulting  proffers  of  the  latter  are 
answered  by  Evadne  with  a  prayer  that  he  will  look 
upon  the  revered  forms  surrounding  them,  "that 
keep  the  likeness  of  her  ancestors."  She  points 
them  out  in  turn,  until  she  comes  to  that  of  her 
father.  There  she  pauses,  and,  after  gazing  rever- 
ently upon  the  beloved  image,  rises  to  her  fall  height, 
as  she  turns  her  glowing  face  upon  the  king,  and 
proudly  asks,  u  Who  was  my  father  ?  " 

She  describes  him,  — his  services,  his  death  upon 
the  battle-field  in  shielding  his  monarch,  —  then 
rushes  to  the  statue,  and  fervently  clasps  her  arms 
about  its  neck.  The  action  was  made  with  reckless  im- 
petuosity. What  was  it  that  caused  Stella  to  start,  and 
stifle  a  half-shriek,  as  she  drew  back  ?  What  face 
was  that  pressing  forward  at  the  wing,  with  an  exult- 
ing sardonic  expression,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Her 
best  point  is  ruined  !  " 

Stella  reclasped  her  half-withdrawn  arms  ;  there 
were  drops  of  blood  rolling  down  the  neck  of  the 
senseless  statue.  The  arms  by  which  it  was  en- 
circled had  been  lacerated  by  sharp  nails,  disposed 
with  their  points  dextrously  projecting  outwards,  to 
accomplish  that  cruel  office.     But  the  actress  never 


STELLA.  137 

flinched,  though  they  pierced  deeper  and  deeper,  as 
she  passionately  exclaimed  : 

"  Breathless  image  ! 
Although  no  heart  doth  beat  within  that  breast, 
No  blood  is  in  those  veins,  let  me  enclasp  thee, 
And  feel  thee  at  my  bosom  !  — Now,  sir,  I  am  ready  ! 
Come  and  unloose  these  feeble  arms,  and  take  me  ! 
Ay,  take  me  from  this  neck  of  senseless  stone, 
And,  to  reward  the  father  with  the  meet 
And  wonted  recompense  that  princes  give, 
Make  me  as  vile 
As  guilt  and  shame  can  make  me!  " 

The  king  replies  : 

"  She  has  smitten 
Compunction  through  my  soul ! ' ' 

"  Evadne.  Approach,  my  lord  ! 

Come,  in  the  midst  of  all  mine  ancestry  ! 
Come,  and  unloose  me  from  my  father's  arms! 
Come,  if  you  dare  !  and  in  his  daughter's  shame 
Reward  him  for  the  last  drops  of  the  blood 
Shed  for  his  prince's  life  ! 

King.  Thou  hast  wrought 

A  miracle  upon  thy  prince's  heart, 
And  lifted  up  a  vestal  lamp,  to  show 
My  soul  its  own  deformity  ! ' ' 

The  effect  produced  upon  the  audience  was  electri- 
fying. The  walls  reverberated  with  prolonged  accla- 
mations. Mr.  Belton,  as  the  curtain  fell,  threw  off  his 
politic  reserve,  and  warmly  commended  the  young 
actress.  He  had  noticed  her  torn  and  bleeding  arms, 
and  now  severely  reprimanded  the  property-man  who 
had  the  statues  in  charge.  Stella  made  no  remark, 
while  the  man  protested  that  they  contained  no  nails 


138  STELLA. 

when  he  arranged  them  upon  the  stage.  But,  as  she 
triumphantly  swept  by  Miss  Doran,  to  reply  to  the 
enthusiastic  summons  of  the  audience,  she  darted  at 
her  a  look  which  both  comprehended.  Could  so  much 
scorn  flash  from  Stella's  gentle  eyes?  Could  so 
much  bitterness,  so  much  enmity,  find  room  within 
her  loving  breast  ?  She  was  startled  at  herself,  when 
she  found  that  such  fierce  passions  were  developed 
in  her  spirit.  Look  at  them,  reckless  girl,  with  self- 
scanning  eyes  !  Admit  all  their  hideousness ;  mar- 
vel that  those  wolves  and  tigers  could  intrude  into 
the  lamb-fold  of  thy  heart's  tender  affections  ;  then 
pray  the  Lord  for  strength  to  drive  them  out !  So 
shall  thy  untried  soul  leap  with  its  first  impulse 
towards  regeneration. 

When  Stella  returned  to  her  room,  the  note  lying 
in  her  dressing-case  chanced  to  attract  her  attention. 
She  sat  down,  half  disrobed,  to  break  the  seal.  The 
paper  contained  a  poem  of  some  length.  She  was 
tossing  it  aside,  with  a  careless  "  I  have  no  time," 
when  the  signature,  "  Edwin  Percy,"  caught  her  eye. 
A  soft  smile,  companioned  by  a  blush,  threw  its  radi- 
ance over  her  face  as  she  read.  Some  lines  she  ap- 
peared to  reperuse  many  times.  When  she  had 
"  sucked  the  honej7-  of  these  music-vows,"  the  verses 
remained  lightly  clasped  between  her  palms  ;  she 
neither  rose  nor  spoke.  Mattie  moved  quietly  about 
the  room,  folding  the  young  girl's  stage  attire. 
Everything  was  in  order  for  their  return  home.  Still 
Stella  remained  unconscious  of  her  presence.  Pres- 
ently there  came  a  sound  of  bustling  feet,  rushing 
up  and  down  the  stairs.  The  farce  was  over ;  in 
twenty  minutes  more,  the  gas,  according  to  Mr.  Bel- 


STELLA.  139 

ton's  strict  rules,  would  be  extinguished  throughout 
the  establishment. 

"I  know  you  are  weary,  Miss  Stella,  dear,  and  it 
goes  against  me  to  disturb  you  ;  but  it  Js  getting 
very  late.  Won't  you  put  on  your  dress  to  go  home  ?  " 

Stella  immediately  complied.  And  the  poem  ?  Of 
course  it  was  restored  to  her  dressing-case  ?  No  ; 
it  found  a  fairer  receptacle  where  quick  pulses  beat 
against  the  lines  which  warmer  pulses  throbbed  in 
penning. 

Mattie  had  taken  up  the  bouquet,  but  Stella  caught 
it  from  her  hand.  "  I  will  carry  those  flowers,  they 
are  so  exquisite  !  I  think  this  is  the  most  beautiful 
bouquet  that  was  ever  sent  me." 

"  0  !  no,  Miss  !  Those  you  received  yesterday 
were  a  deal  more  beautiful !  I  never  saw  anything 
equal  to  them.  But,  dear  me,  you  hardly  looked  at 
them !  " 

"  They  did  not  seem  to  me  so  beautiful  as  these/' 
replied  Stella,  wholly  unconscious  of  the  dawning 
sentiment  that  her  words  betrayed. 

When  they  returned  home,  Stella  could  not  seek 
her  couch.  The  new  drama  had  only  been  imper- 
fectly conned.  There  was  no  time  for  a  mellowed 
conception  of  her  role,  but  the  language  of  the  poet 
must  be  fixed  in  her  mind.  She  bathed  her  burning 
brows  and  gas-dazzled  eyes,  and  slowly  paced  her 
chamber  with  the  play  in  her  hand.  All  the 
house,  but  Mattie  and  Stella,  had  lain  their  burdens 
m  the  lap  of  sleep.  The  one  plied  her  needle  on  a 
rich  brocade  designed  for  the  morrow's  wear ;  the 
other  drank  in  the  inspirations  of  the  young  poet. 
As  she  stored  his  glowing  thoughts  in  her  memory, 


140  STELLA. 

she  dreamed  herself  the  envoy  sent  with  u  palms  of 
honor  "  for  his  hands.  What  hour  breaks  the  still- 
ness with  its  loud  strokes  ?  One  !  Two  !  Three  ! 
Soon  the  "gray-eyed  morn  "  will  "smile  upon  the 
frowning  night. "  Three  hours,  and  no  more,  may 
Stella's  heavy  eyelids  be  folded  down. 

On  the  day  of  the  benefit,  the  well-filled  box-sheet, 
the  dense  crowd  collected  around  the  box-keeper's 
office,  were  sure  prognostics  of  an  overflowing  house. 
The  appointed  time  for  rehearsal  had  passed  by  a 
full  hour,  and  Mr.  Tennent  was  still  absent.  How 
anxious  and  restless  the  young  author  must  have 
been  !  No,  not  in  the  least.  His  seat  was  on  one 
side  of  the  manager's  table  ;  on  the  other  stood  two 
chairs,  by  theatrical  courtesy  reserved  for  the  stars  ; 
one  of  them  was  occupied. 

Ardently  as  Edwin  Percy  coveted  success  as  a 
dramatist,  that  ambition  weighed  lighter  than  a 
butterfly's  wing,  when  balanced  against  the  new, 
life-absorbing  desire,  that  asserted  its  supremacy 
over  all  other  hopes.  His  thoughts  wove  them- 
selves closely  around  Stella,  and  drew  her  into  the 
sanctuary  where  holiest  things  had  residence  in  his 
spirit.  Her  manner  towards  him  was  more  reserved 
than  it  had  been  on  the  day  previous.  The  eyes 
which  she  now  and  then  lifted  to  his  had  taken  their 
softest,  bluest  hue,  but  they  were  not  raised  long 
enough  for  him  to  peruse  their  mysterious  depths. 
Her  answers  were  so  brief  and  constrained  that  one 
less  sanguine  than  Percy  would  have  deemed  her  cold. 

Mr.  Tennent  now  entered ;  his  wife  continued 
dangerously  ill ;  that  apology  was  readily  accepted 
by  all.     It  was  no  wonder  that  the  tragedian  had 


STELLA.  141 

only  a  very  vague  idea  of  the  author's  language.  It 
soon  became  apparent  that  he  could  not  the  "  matter 
re-word/7  and,  to  the  horror  of  Mr.  Percy,  was  com- 
pelled to  refer  to  his  part.  Several  of  the  actors  fol- 
lowed his  example.  The  use  of  parts,  at  a  last  re- 
hearsal, is,  however,  against  stage-rules.  Stella  and 
Miss  Doran  were  the  only  two  of  the  company  who 
delivered  the  words  of  the  play  unmutilated.  Mr. 
Doran  had  bestowed  more  than  usual  pains  upon  his 
daughter's  tuition.  He  lingered  at  the  wing  and 
watched  all  her  movements,  chiding  or  commending 
her  every  time  she  made  her  exit.  He  was  resolved 
that  she  should  compete  for  laurels  with  the  new 
favorite. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  had  no  great  affinity  for  her  part ;  nor 
was  it  suited  to  her  style.  Had  not  sweet  charity 
"  tempered  all  her  thoughts/'  she  would  have  wished 
the  play  a  brief  existence. 

Mrs.  Pottle  was  perfectly  odious  in  her  royal  role. 
She  converted  justice-dispensing  majesty  into  a 
scolding  market-woman. 

The  actors  prophesied  the  failure  of  the  play. 
Their  tacit  conspiracy  against  its  success  was  well 
calculated  to  bring  about  the  prophecy's  fulfilment. 

Mr.  Percy,  despite  the  theatrical  torments  to  which 
he  had  been  subjected,  despite  the  lashings  and  buf- 
fets and  foot-ball  treatment  which  his  dramatic  off- 
spring had  received  from  the  scornful  players,  was 
still  buoyed  up  by  high  expectations.  As  he  made 
his  way  that  night  through  the  crowd,  and  secluded 
himself  in  a  private  box,  his  elaborate  toilet  beto- 
kened that  he  was  prepared  to  bow  from  his  retreat, 
in  acknowledgment  of  certain  enthusiastic  demon- 


142  STELLA. 

strations  ;  or,  perhaps,  to  appear  before  the  foot-lights 
and  deliver  a  neat  speech,  expressive  of  his  over- 
powering emotions. 

Stella  found  in  her  dressing-room,  at  the  theatre,  a 
wreath  of  fresh  white  roses.  The  note  attached  to 
them  contained  these  words  : 

"  One  who  would  scatter  thornless  roses  in  the 
path  of  genius  prays  you  to  wear  this  flowery  coro- 
nal to-night.  E.  P." 

Stella  hesitated  a  while, —  she  hardly  knew  why, — 
and  then  bound  the  roses,  a  fitting  symbol,  on  her 
pure  brow. 

The  curtain  rose.  The  dialogue  commenced  be- 
tween two  courtiers,  whose  duty  it  was  to  apprise 
the  audience  of  the  histories  of  certain  individuals, 
concerning  whose  welfare  they  were  expected  to 
become  solicitous.  But  this  interesting  communica- 
tion was  delivered  in  tones  so  confidential  that  the 
listeners  remained  in  ignorance  of  the  praiseworthy 
intention.  The  author  only  now  and  then  recognized 
an  expression  to  which  he  could  conscientiously  lay 
claim.  Characters  of  more  importance  now  made 
their  appearance.  A  mental  scuffle  for  words  and 
ideas  ensued.  Mr.  Percy's  box  communicated  be- 
hind the  scenes.  The  author  rushed  out,  and  implored 
the  prompter  to  give  the  word  loudly.  Was  the 
audience  to  suppose  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  per- 
petrating such  offences  against  grammar,  good  taste, 
common  sense,  as  were  committed  in  the  trash  just 
uttered  as  his  ?  It  was  distracting !  It  must  not 
be! 

Miss  Doran's  entrance   gave  a  diversion   to   his 


STELLA.  143 

feelings.  She  was  sumptuously  costumed,  and 
looked  magnificently  beautiful.  Stella  soon  followed ; 
and  now  the  wandering  attention  of  the  audience 
became  fixed.  Mr.  Tennent  entered  at  a  critical 
moment,  and  the  interest  increased.  But  that  por- 
tion of  the  dialogue  which  fell  to  the  share  of  the 
troubled  actor  was  supplied  by  a  rapid  improvisation. 
All  flowers  of  poesy  and  dew-drops  of  fancy  were 
ruthlessly  stripped  and  shaken  from  the  original 
stem. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  played  languidly ;  her  personation 
raised  up  no  supporting  pillar  beneath  the  tottering 
dome  of  the  author's  dramatic  edifice. 

Mrs.  Pottle  next  strutted  on  the  stage.  Her 
stunted,  shrivelled-up  figure  was  almost  concealed 
in  the  folds  of  her  far-spreading  train,  fashioned  of 
flame-colored  cotton  velvet.  She  had  prodigally 
adorned  her  diminutive  head  with  a  huge  crown,  cut 
out  of  gilded  foil.  It  was  of  her  own  tasteful  manufac- 
ture, and,  being  somewhat  limp  in  its  construction, 
shook  and  rattled  at  every  movement.  Such  a  peal 
of  laughter  as  broke  from  the  audience  when  she 
turned  to  them  her  wizened  face  !  Mrs.  Pottle  had 
been  occupying  her  leisure  moments  in  the  green- 
room in  the  laudable  pursuit  of  plain  sewing.  She 
chanced,  at  the  moment  when  Fisk  made  his  call,  to 
be  more  deeply  engrossed  by  her  housewifely  avoca- 
tion than  her  professional  triumphs.  The  queen  had 
pompously  stalked  upon  the  stage  without  remov- 
ing the  spectacles,  which  glittered  just  beneath  her 
gilt-paper  crown.  The  hand  which  she  lifted  to  give 
point  to  her  declamation  showed  one  finger  armed 
with  a   shining    brass  thimble.      The  unconscious 


144  STELLA. 

Pottle  smiled  benignantly ;  and,  when  the  diversion 
of  the  audience  found  vent  in  mocking"  applause,  she 
curtseyed  in  the  style  in  which  she  thought  queens 
are  wont  to  curtsey.  It  may  be  well  to  state  that 
her  conception  of  royalty  was  chiefly  derived  from 
the  right  regal  dame  chronicled  in  "  Mother  Goose  " 
as  diverting  herself  in  the  kitchen  with  the  consump- 
tion of  bread  and  honey. 

Some  individual  in  the  gallery  waggishly  inquired 
whether  her  majesty  had  quite  repaired  the  aperture 
in  her  royal  consort's  stocking.  Mrs.  Pottle's  atten- 
tion was  consequently  attracted  to  her  thimble.  She 
plucked  off  the  tell-tale  armor,  and  hunted  for  a 
pocket ;  but  pocket  to  her  newly-made  queenly  gar- 
ment there  was  none.  She  clutched  at  her  specta- 
cles ;  they  were  entangled  in  her  hair,  but,  after 
several  furious  pulls,  gave  way,  dislodging  the  won- 
derful crown.  It  sent  forth  a  tinsel  sound,  as  it 
lightly  dropped  on  the  stage.  The  merriment  of  the 
audience  now  reached  its  height.  Mrs.  Pottle  was 
decidedly  crestfallen.  Her  majestic  airs  melted  away  ; 
she  poignantly  felt  that,  with  the  loss  of  her  fine  top- 
knot feathers,  she  could  no  longer  pass  for  a  fine  bird. 
Her  attempts  to  scramble  the  crown  on  her  head,  as 
though  it  had  been  a  night-cap,  were  saluted  with 
fresh  shouts  of  hilarity.  The  little  woman,  with  her 
crown  awry,  her  frightened  face,  her  long  train,  pre- 
sented an  object  irresistibly  ludicrous.  The  words 
of  her  part  were  all  startled  out  of  her  so  lately  dis- 
crowned  head.  The  second  act  abruptly  concluded, 
before  the  audience  had  received  a  clue  to  unravel 
the  tangled  plot  of  the  drama. 

At  the  second  fall  of  the  curtain  Mr.  Percy  hurried 


STELLA.  145 

about  behind 'the  scenes,  pleading  with  the  prompter, 
remonstrating  with  the  actors,  imploring  them  to 
rouse  themselves,  to  have  pity  upon  his  feelings. 
Some  laughed  in  his  face  ;  some  turned  away  without 
a  reply  ;  some  answered  savagely  that  they  compre- 
hended their  own  business,  and  should  hardly  go  to 
him  for  instruction. 

In  the  third  act  the  tide  of  disorder  suddenly 
turned  ;  the  play  progressed  intelligibly.  Stella  and 
Miss  Doran  again  occupied  the  stage.  Mr.  Percy's 
frost-nipped  laurels  budded  anew. 

Mr.  Doran  stood  at  the  first  entrance,  watching 
his  daughter,  and  now  and  then  giving  her  directions 
in  an  under-tone.  Stella's  spirited  performance 
caused  Miss  Doran's  line-and-metre  acting  to  appear 
tame.  Mr.  Doran  was  determined  to  arouse  her  to 
greater  exertion.  As  she  passed  close  to  the  spot 
where  he  was  standing,  he  exclaimed,  in  a  vehement 
whisper,  "  Fire  !  fire  !  Malvina,  fire  !  "  at  the  same 
time  working  his  arms  up  and  down  in  an  excited 
manner. 

Her  majesty  happened  to  flit  by  at  that  very  mo- 
ment. She  heard  the  terrible  words  "  Fire  !  fire  !  " 
and  supposed  Mr.  Doran  was  giving  his  daughter 
timely  warning  of  a  conflagration. 

"  Fire  !  fire  !  fire  !  The  theatre  ?s  on  fire  !  " 
shrieked  the  literal  Mrs.  Pottle,  running  wildly  to 
the  green-room,  and  then  to  her  dressing-room  to 
make  a  bundle  of  her  theatrical  belongings. 

"  Fire  !  fire  !  fire  !  "  echoed  voices  on  every  side  ; 
every  one  following  her  example,  gathering  up  what- 
ever he  could  seize,  and  rushing  into  the  street. 

The  direful  words  reached  the  audience.     "Fire! 


146  STELLA. 

fire  !  fire  !  "  resounded  from  pit  to  dome.  There  was 
a  general  rush  towards  the  doors.  Screams,  oaths, 
mad  ejaculations,  went  up,  mingling  with  hundreds 
of  voices  repeating  the  awful  words,  "  Fire  !  fire  ! 
fire  !  "  Some  even  fancied  they  saw  the  flames,  and 
were  becoming  stifled  with  the  smoke.  The  theatre 
was  cleared  in  front ;  not  a  being  was  left  behind 
the  scenes  ;  the  fire-bells  were  ringing  vociferously  ; 
the  engines  thronged  the  streets  ;  the  crowd  waited 
without  to  behold  the  bursting  flames  that  were  ev- 
ery moment  expected  to  dart  from  the  windows  of 
the  building.     None,  appeared. 

"  Where  is  the  fire  ?  Who  gave  the  alarm  ?  H 
asked  Mr.  Belton  of  a  shivering  group  of  actors, 
who,  in  their  fantastical  costumes,  were  huddled  to- 
gether on  the  sidewalk. 

"  I  heard  it  from  Mr.  Finch !  " 

"  I  heard  it  from  Mr.  Swain  I  " 

"  I  heard  it  from  Mr.  Tennent !  " 

"Mr.  Tennent  —  where  is  Mr.  Tennent?  Whom 
did  you  hear  it  from,  sir  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Pottle  was  the  first  person  who  gave  me 
the  alarm/'  said  Mr.  Tennent. 

"  Yes,  I  started  the  alarm,  that  I  did  !  Mr.  Doran 
—  I  heard  it  first  from  Mr.  Doran,"  said  Mrs.  Pottle, 
in  a  self-congratulating  tone.  "  I  gave  the  alarm  on 
the  instant.  0, 1  took  care  to  do  that !  I  do  believe 
it  '&  owing  to  me  that  you  are  all  saved  !  w 

"  You  heard  it  from  me,  madam  ?  "  said  Mr.  Doran. 
"  Never  !  I  knew  nothing  of  the  fire  until  half  the 
people  had  rushed  from  the  theatre. " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  did  !     You  knew  it  well  enough.     I 


STELLA.  147 

found  you  shouting  out  '  Fire !  fire !  fire  ! '  to  your 
daughter,  and  trying  to  warn  her  first." 

Mr.  Doran's  emphatic  but  somewhat  profane  reply 
may  better  be  imagined  than  set  down  on  paper.  An 
explanation  ensued.  Mrs.  Pottle  was  driven  about 
by  a  whirlwind  of  reproaches. 

The  actors  returned  to  the  theatre  ;  only  a  portion 
of  the  audience  could  be  lured  back  again.  After  a 
short  interval  the  play  proceeded,  but  its  doom  was 
inevitable.  The  performers  were  more  unfitted  than 
ever  to  personate  their  parts  ;  the  audience  was  out 
of  humor.  In  the  fourth  act  a  solitary  hiss  made 
itself  audible.  More  appalling  was  that  snaky  sound 
to  the  young  author's  ears  than  the  terror-inspiring 
cry  of  "Fire!  fire!" 

The  hisses  increased.  Some  of  the  author's  friends 
tried  to  drown  them  with  laborious  applause,  but 
in  vain.  The  disapprobation  became  general,  and 
several  of  the  company  —  unfortunate  Mrs.  Pottle 
among  the  number  —  were  greeted  with  cries  of 
"Off!"  "Off!" 

The  manager  ordered  the  curtain  to  be  abruptly 
lowered.  The  denouement  of  the  play  remained  in 
mysterious  obscurity. 

The  mortification  of  the  maltreated  author  needs 
no  description.  A  friend,  who  joined  him  in  his  pri- 
vate box,  jocosely  advised  that  he  should  join  in  the 
unanimous  condemnation,  —  a  practice  not  unknown 
to  dramatists ;  but  Mr.  Percy  had  not  learned 
worldly  lessons  sufficient  to  profit  by  the  sage  coun- 
sel. As  the  curtain  began  to  unroll,  he  made  his 
way  out  of  the  theatre,  and  betook  himself  to  flight. 

Two  hours  later,  a  wearied  young  girl,  upon  whose 


148  STELLA. 

brow  a  wreath  of  white  roses  slowly  withered,  stood 
for  a  few  moments  at  her  chamber  window,  before 
retiring.  Whose  was  the  muffled  form  promenading 
up  and  down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street? 
Whose  the  countenance  so  often  turned  to  that  case- 
ment ?  It  was  too  dark  for  the  features  to  be  distin- 
guished. Possibly  she  was  deceived,  but  a  low, 
sweet  voice  within  her  whispered  that  it  was  the 
young  author. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Second  Performance  of  Virginia.  — Jealousy  of  Miss  Dor  an.  — 
Impertinent  Advances  of  Mr.  Swain.  —  Sabbath.  —  Stella's 
First  Recognition  of  its  Blessedness.  — Accidental  Meeting  with 
Mr.  Percy.  —  Kindred  Spirits. — The  Young  Author's  Dream. 

—  Rehearsal  of  Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  —  Omission  of  Of- 
fensive Lines. —  Miss  Doran's  Consequent  Derision. —  Stella's 
Failure  in  the  Personation  of  the  Sparkling  Beatrice.  — Miss 
Doran's  Triumph  as  Hero. —  A  Night  of  Torment.  —  The 
Merciless  Critique.  —  Bitter  Reflections  of  the  Novice  upon 
the  Life  she  has  entered.  —  Second  Performance  of  Evadne.  — 
Another  Frightful  Night.  —  Rehearsal  of  Juliet.  —  Singular 
Change  in  Stella's  Demeanor.  —  Alarm  of  Mrs.  Fairfax. — 
The  Friendly  Actress  determined  to  snatch  Stella  from  her 
Perilous  Situation.  —  Sudden  Bursts  of  Hilarity  and  Fits 
of  Gloom.  —  Perdita  in  Grief.  —  Stella's  Thrilling  Persona- 
tion of  Juliet. —  The  Audience  and  the  Ballet- Girl. —  Close 
of  the  Fourth  Act.  —  A  Horrible  Accident. —  Sudden  Death. 

—  The  Stage-Manager's  Cold-blooded  Orders.  —  Stella's 
Entire  Loss  of  Self- Control. —  The  Manager's  Visit  to 
Stella's  Dressing-Room.  —  An  apparently  Inhuman  Request. 

—  Juliet's  Tomb.  —  Terror  of  the  Young  Actress.  —  Mrs. 
Fairfax  concealed  in  the  Sepulchral  Vault  of  the  Capulets.  — 
A  Novel  Conclusion  of  the  Tragedy.  —  The  Suffering  Actress 
before  the  Foot-Lights.  —  State  in  which  she  is  taken  Home. — 
Mr?  Percy. 

One  day  without  a  rehearsal !  one  single  wel- 
come day  in  that  toilsome  week !  Virginius  was 
announced  for  repetition  on  Saturday  night ;  and, 
having  once  been  acted  during  Mr.  Tennent's  en- 
gagement, no  further  .rehearsal  was  required. 
13 


150  STELLA. 

The  brilliant  comedy  of  Much  Ado  about  Nothing 
was  selected  for  Monday  night.  The  hours  usually 
occupied  at  rehearsal  Stella  passed  with  her  tutor. 

Her  second  embodiment  of  Virginia  was  a  more 
artistic  performance  than  the  first,  yet  characterized 
by  equal  freshness  and  freedom  from  mannerism. 
The  evening  would  have  been  one  of  unalloyed  ex- 
ultation, but  for  the  determined  persecution  of  Miss 
Doran.  Though  she  had  no  character  to  personate 
in  the  tragedy,  she  chose  to  remain  behind  the 
scenes,  and  sought  in  a  hundred  trivial  ways  to 
annoy  the  detested  novice. 

Mr.  Swain  enacted  Icilius,  as  before.  It  was  very 
obvious  that  he  entertained  a  growing  admiration 
for  the  representative  of  Virginia.  The  unfeigned 
jealousy  of  Miss  Doran  gratified  his  vanity.  Stella 
was  surprised  and  mortified  by  the  preposterous  airs 
that  he  now  assumed,  the  insinuating  tone  in  which 
he  ventured  to  address  her,  his  languishing  glances 
and  assiduous  attentions.  These  impertinent  ad- 
vances were  repelled  with  the  most  frigid  hauteur. 
In  that  short  week  her  character  had  developed  with 
gigantic  growth.  Dark  shadows  were  introduced 
into  the  picture,  before  all  light,  and  by  their  sombre 
aid  its  distinguishing  features  were  more  strongly 
revealed. 

Sabbath,  the  blessed  Sabbath !  Never  had  this 
day  been  so  welcome  to  Stella.  When  life  was  but 
a  pastime,  existence  a  holiday,  divided  between  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure  and  a  struggle  against  ennui, 
she  had  too  often  looked  upon  Sunday  as  a  period 
of  weariness,  an  interruption  to  the  amusements  of 
the  week.     The  rigid  observance  of  the  sacred  day 


STELLA.  151 

inJNcw  England  grew  irksome,  and,  as  she  listlessly- 
moved  through  a  round  of  cold,  vitality-lacking  form- 
alities, she  might  have  said,  with  the  unrepenting 
king,  (&^HaHHJ&0& 

"  My  words  fly  up,  my  thoughts  remain  below  ; 
Words  without  thoughts  never  to  heaven  go  !  " 

But,  now  that  her  mind  had  been  chained  to  the 
rack,  that  all  her  faculties  had  been  summoned  into 
use,  that  she  had  experienced  fatigue  even  to  ex- 
haustion, the  Sabbath  was  truly  a  day  for  rest ;  a 
day  for  devotion ;  a  day  for  spiritual  instruction, 
such  as  her  heart  expanded  and  craved  to  receive. 
For  the  first  time  she  recognized  its  holiness,  and 
was  penetrated  by  that  calming  influence  produced 
by  the  absence  from  labor  in  all  around  her. 

Mattie  entered  Stella's  chamber  several  times  that 
Sabbath  morning,  and  found  her  in  a  refreshing 
sleep,  a  smile  just  parting  her  lips  ;  no  play-book, 
but  a  Bible,  lying  upon  the  pillow.  One  delicate 
finger  was  closed  in  the  volume,  as  though  she  had 
fallen  into  a  trance-like  slumber  as  she  read,  and 
angels  were  repeating  to  her,  in  dreams,  the  Scrip- 
tures' holy  promises.  She  did  not  rise  until  the  in- 
viting bells  had  ceased  their  solemn  summons  to 
morning  worship.  When  her  mother  returned  from 
church,  she  found  her  looking  calmer  and  more  in- 
vigorated than  she  had  appeared  for  weeks. 

The  change  in  Stella's  mode  of  life,  and  the  energy 
she  daily  displayed,  had  wrought  a  marked  effect  on 
Mrs.  Rosenvelt.  Her  apathy  had  partially  disap- 
peared ;  her  mind  was  no  longer  wholly  absorbed  in 
rebellion   against  her  sorrows.      The  sluggishness 


152  STELLA. 

induced  by  a  constant  contemplation  of  self  was 
dispelled.  Through  the  daughter's  incessant  activ- 
ity, there  were  healthful  mental  influences  commu- 
nicated to  the  mother's  spirit.  She  was  forced  to 
think  of  her  child,  to  take  some  interest  in  the  stir- 
ring events  of  her  theatrical  career.  Mrs.  Rosenvelt 
even  began  to  hint  at  a  period  when  she  might  wit- 
ness one  of  her  daughter's  performances.  Her  hours 
were  no  longer  passed  in  utter  idleness.  She  not  un- 
frequently  found  Mattie  and  her  assistant  so  hurried 
in  the  preparation  of  new  costumes  that  even  Mrs. 
Rosenvelt's  inefficient  aid  was  gratefully  welcomed. 

Ernest  had  written  to  his  sister  several  times. 
The  instant  that  he  found  his  remonstrances  were 
unavailing,  he  encouraged  and  sustained  her  by  his 
advice  and  countenance.  But  her  first  marked  suc- 
cesses did  not  alter  his  original  opinion.  He  still 
regarded  the  step  she  had  taken  as  fearfully  hazard- 
ous, still  looked  forward  tremblingly  to  evil  results. 

Stella  accompanied  her  mother  to  afternoon  ser- 
vice. Never  had  the  anthems  sounded  so  holy ;  never 
had  her  spirit  been  so  lifted  up  by  prayer ;  never 
had  she  been  so  touched  by  the  exhortation  of  the 
preacher.  She  had  sat  under  his  ministry  from  her 
childhood,  and  oftentimes  thought  him  dry  and  dull ; 
now  he  appeared  inspired.  The  change  was  not  in 
him,  but  in  herself.  Her  perceptions  were  quickened, 
her  heart  softened,  her  mind  became  receptive. 

As  Mrs.  Rosenvelt  and  her  daughter  returned 
home,  they  encountered  Mr.  Percy.  He  started,  as 
though  some  phantom  of  his  thoughts  had  suddenly 
risen  up  before  him.  The  flush  that  suffused  his 
manly  countenance  was  reflected  on  Stella's  face,  as 


STELLA.  153 

he  bowed,  hesitated,  and  then,  with  a  confused,  un- 
intelligible apology,  joined  them.  A  few  steps  more 
brought  them  to  Mrs.  Rosenvelt's  residence.  The 
door  was  opened.  He  lingered,  conversing  with 
Stella.  Courtesy  compelled  the  mother  to  invite  him 
to  enter.  The  joyful  alacrity  with  which  he  complied 
somewhat  shocked  her  strict  ideas  of  propriety. 

Let  those  who  will  deny  that  love  is  the  sponta- 
neous rushing  together  of  two  kindred  spirits,  which 
belong  to  each  other ;  which,  when  united,  form  a 
perfect  whole  ;  which  oftentimes  recognize  their  inter- 
nal affinity  the  instant  they  meet ;  —  the  attraction 
Edwin  Percy  experienced  towards  this  youag  girl, 
from  the  moment  when  he  first  gazed  upon  her,  can 
be  defined  by  no  term  but  the  hackneyed,  misapplied, 
often  profaned  word,  love.  If  Stella's  heart  throbbed 
with  answering  pulsations,  she  was  not  conscious  of 
their  stroke.  In  this  one  instance,  the  knowledge 
that  flashes  upon  man  penetrates  slowly,  piercing 
many  a  veil  and  barrier,  to  woman's  recognition. 

Percy's  unfortunate  initiation  into  a  theatre,  his 
brief  acquaintance  with  the  discordant  elements  at 
war  within  its  walls,  added  to  the  failure  of  his  own 
play  through  the  conspiracy  of  the  actors,  created 
in  his  mind  a  strong  distaste  for  the  theatrical 
profession.  He  could  not  endure  to  think  that  a 
being,  so  peerless  in  her  purity  and  loveliness, 
should  long  be  exposed  to  the  jarring  influences,  to 
the  selfishness,  the  malevolence,  the  dreary  inter- 
course with  inferior  natures,  she  must  perforce  en- 
counter in  the  career  which  she  had  rashly  chosen. 
His  hand  would  snatch  her  from  such  desecration ; 
the  myrtle  and  the  orange-blossom  would  woo  her  to 


154  STELLA. 

forget  the  soul-bewildering  laurel  ;  love's  tender 
breathings  would  fill  her  ears  with  richer  music  than 
thousand-tongued  acclamations.  Such  was  his  dream ! 

They  had  conversed  on  many  subjects  before 
Stella  delicately  alluded  to  the  misadventures  of 
Friday  night. 

"  What  intolerable  mental  torture  you  must  have 
endured  !  "  she  remarked,  sympathizingly. 

The  poet's  dark  eyes  were  passionately  eloquent 
as  he  answered, 

"  What  living  man  could  fear 
The  worst  of  Fortune's  malice,  wert  thou  near?  " 

Stella  looked  confused  for  an  instant ;  then,  with 
womanly  tact,  she  turned  the  conversation  into  com- 
monplace channels. 

As  the  young  dramatist  walked  musingly  to  his 
home  that  night,  his  failing  play  appeared  the  en- 
chanted key  to  life's  dearest  triumph.         • 

The  morn  again  brought  to  the  novitiate  actress 
the  necessity  of  study.  The  sense  of  oppressive 
responsibility,  of  nervous  excitement,  which  had 
been  banished  for  a  day,  returned. 

The  most  thorough  familiarity  with  Shakspeare's 
quaint  phraseology  is  requisite  in  the  personation 
of  Beatrice.  Stella  appreciated  the  value  of  her 
author's  text  to  the  full,  but  she  had  been  forced  to 
memorize  with  great  rapidity;  more. than  once,  at 
rehearsal,  her  memory  proved  treacherous.  She  had 
been  warned,  by  Mr.  Oakland,  against  the  slipshod 
habit  of  gabbling  in  a  senseless  manner  over  the  lan- 
guage of  a  part,  without  an  effort  to  embody  the 
character.     But  when  she  endeavored  to  assume  the 


STELLA.  155 

tone  and  mien  befitting  the  joyous,  caustic  Beatrice, 
the  attempt  proved  signally  infelicitous.  Miss  Doran 
enacted  Hero,  and  her  presence  exerted  some  stupe- 
fying influence. 

In  the  stage  versions  of  Shakspeare's  plays  a  large 
portion  of  the  original  text  is  omitted.  Numerous 
passages,  which  were  tolerated  in  the  lax  days  of  the 
Virgin  Queen,  are  suppressed,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Yet  not  a  few  objectionable  phrases  remain.  These 
are  delivered  or  expunged  at  the  discretion  of 
"  stars  ;  "  but  the  regular  members  of  the  company 
are  expected  to  follow  the  copy  in  the  prompter's 
hands.  Mr.  Oakland  had  erased  from  Stella's  volume 
of  Much  Ado  About  Nothing  certain  witty  but  offen- 
sive lines.  Stella  passed  them  over  at  rehearsal. 
Mr.  Allsop,  without  reflecting  upon'  their  import, 
prompted  her,  in  his  usual  business-like  manner. 

"I  do  not  speak  those  sentences,"  was  her  mild 
reply. 

Miss  Doran  thought  this  an  admirable  opportunity 
to  hold  up  her  rival  to  ridicule.  She  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands  with  an  air  of  mock  confusion,  exclaiming,  '*  0, 
dear  !  how  modest  we  are  I  Mr.  Allsop,  I  'm  shocked  ! 
How  could  you  —  how  could  you,  you  naughty  man, 
prompt  such  dreadful  lines  I  0,  what  a  blessing  it 
is  that  we  've  got  a  saint  among  us !  I  '11  order 
ascension  robes  to  be  made  in  the  wardrobe  at  once  ! 
We  're  all  safe  to  go  to  heaven,  hanging  on  to  her 
train !  " 

Everybody  but  Stella  laughed.  The  angry  sen- 
sations into  which  she  had  twice  before  been  betrayed 
were  kindled  anew.  The  wrathful  reply  which  sprang 
to  her  lips  was  stifled  with  difficulty. 


156  STELLA. 

Mr.  Finch  now  called  every  one  to  order,  and  the 
play  proceeded  without  further  interruption,  except 
an  occasional  sneer  from  Miss  Doran  whenever 
Stella  threw  a  touch  of  lightness  into  her  part. 

Unequal  to  the  task  of  representing  Beatrice  as 
Stella  deemed  herself  in  the  morning,  she  was  not 
prepared  to  be  weighed  in  the  scale  and  found  so 
lamentably  wanting  as  she  was  proved  at  night. 
The  personation  of  a  dashing  comic  part  requires 
greater  ease  and  more  thorough  stage  knowledge 
than  a  sublime  tragic  embodiment.  Stella  made  a 
vain  effort  to  depict  the  sparkling,  rollicking  bril- 
liancy, the  half-spiteful  mirth,  the  meaning  glances, 
the  ringing  laughter,  of  the  merry  lady  who  misprized 
all  she  looked  upon.  The  exuberant  witticisms  of 
Beatrice  fell  pointless  upon  the  ears  of  her  auditors. 
Stella  tried  to  laugh,  but  the  notes  died  hoarsely  away 
in  her  throat.  Her  air  of  forced  gayety  might  have 
been  mistaken  for  affectation  rather  than  mirth. 
Even  her  step,  which  should  have  been  rapid  and 
elastic,  was  slow,  and  almost  heavy.  Her  counte- 
nance owed  half  its  beauty  to  bright,  rapidly-varying 
expressions  ;  but  this  evening  her  visage  was,  at 
times,  a  perfect  blank  —  it  had  never  looked  less 
lovely.  A  constrained,  unnatural  smile  only  touched, 
without  wreathing,  her  lips,  while  her  eyes  were 
clouded  by  the  most  opposite  expression.  Her 
Beatrice  was,  indeed,  "heavy  lightness  —  serious 
vanity." 

Miss  Doran  had  ou^-dressed  her.  The  rich  brocade, 
with  its  scarlet  flowers  interwound  with  vines  of 
gold  embroidery,  the  coquettish  Spanish  hat,  and 
long  waving  plumes,  threw  Stella's  less  costly  blue 


STELLA.  15T 

satin  and  plumeless  head-dress  into  the  shade.  She 
was  painfully  conscious  of  the  inappropriateness  of 
her  quiet  costume  to  her  lively  role.  But,  in  the 
midst  of  her  perplexities,  her  eyes  more  than  once 
rested  upon  a  talismanic  bouquet  which  she  carried, 
and  then,  for  a  moment,  the  wonted  radiance  re- 
turned to  her  face.  Those  flowers  had  been  found 
in  her  dressing-room  at  the  theatre.  The  few  lines 
which  accompanied  them  Stella  had  not  tossed  into 
the  dressing-case,  nor  had  she  confided  to  her  watch- 
ful dressing-maid  from  whence  they  came. 

Every  time  the  young  actress  was  required  to 
appear  upon  the  stage,  she  notified  Mattie  where- 
abouts she  would  make  her  exit,  and  bade  her  be 
there  with  the  book.  The  instant  Stella  passed  out 
of  sight  of  the  audience,  she  seized  the  volume  from 
her  attendant's  hand,  and  studied  without  pause. 

In  one  scene  alone  did  she,  in  some  degree,  re- 
deem the  sombreness  and  feebleness  of  her  delinea- 
tion. It  was  that  in  which  Beatrice  indignantly 
defends  her  friend,  and  urges  Benedict  to  espouse 
the  injured  Hero's  cause,  and  call  Claudio  to  account. 
Through  the  whole  of  the  play,  which  had  seemed  to 
her  to  drag  its  slow  length  unendingly  along,  it  was 
the  only  time  that  a  hand  was  raised  in  testimony  of 
encouragement. 

She  learned  that,  if  public  favor  may  be  quickly 
won  by  brilliant  efforts,  it  is  as  rapidly  lost,  or  at 
least  jeoparded,  by  a  single  night's  insufficiency. 

"  Will  you  permit  me  to  escort  you  home  ?  "  asked 

a    well-remembered    voice,    as    Stella    and    Mattie 

emerged   through    the    stage-door   into   the  street. 

Stella  mutely  accepted  the  proffered  arm.     In  vain 

14 


158  STELLA. 

Mr.  Percy  ignored  her  failure  in  Beatrice ;  his 
praises  did  not  remove  her  deep  sense  of  mortifi- 
cation. She  entertained  too  great  a  veneration  for 
her  art  to  be  satisfied  in  the  absence  of  self-approba- 
tion, 

"  Can  I  not  make  you  think  as  little  of  to-night's 
performance  as  I  do  ?  "  he  asked,  as  they  parted. 

"No  —  I  fear  not." 

"  I  might,  if  I  could  make  you  think  more  of —  of 
me." 

"  Good-night,"  was  Stella's  unsatisfactory  reply, 
as  she  entered  her  home. 

That  night  she  lay  awake  for  hours,  reacting  Bea- 
trice in  thought.  Now  she  wondered  how  she  could 
have  delivered  such  a  passage  so  stupidly,  how  she 
could  have  been  guilty  of  such  blundering  readings  ; 
now  she  felt  indignant  with  Miss  Doran  for  out- 
dressing  her,  for  outshining  her.  Yes,  outshining 
her;  for  the  simple  but  lovable  character  of  the 
wronged  Hero  had  been  invested  with  a  prominence 
which  left  a  dull  Beatrice  in  the  back-ground.  Stella 
could  not  banish  the  play  from  her  thoughts.  It 
seemed  as  though  some  invisible  being  turned  over 
the  pages  by  her  side,  and  read  aloud  in  her  ears.  At 
last,  thoroughly  exhausted,  she  sank  to  sleep,  but 
woke  stifling  with  the  successless  attempt  to  execute 
a  mirthful  laugh.  When  she  slept  again,  the  dream 
was  only  repeated  with  increased  vividness,  and  a 
hideous  variation  of  torment.  It  was  too  dreadful ; 
she  would  not  —  dared  not  sleep  again.  She  rose, 
seated  herself  by  the  window,  and  looked  out  into 
the  silent,  gas-lighted  street.  Immediately  beneath 
the   lamp-post  stood   a    theatrical   placard  bearing 


STELLA.  159 

her  own  name  and  that  of  Beatrice  in  huge  letters. 
How  she  loathed  the  very  sight !  She  turned  im- 
patiently away,  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  and  wept 
until  morning. 

When  she  joined  her  mother  at  breakfast,  Mattie 
brought  in  the  daily  papers.  Stella  seized  them 
with  avidity.  There  was  no  cautious  friend  at  hand 
to  shut  from  her  sight  all  indiscriminate,  haphazard 
commendation  or  blame.  Both  are  pernicious  to  the 
youthful  artist,  who  is  too  apt  to  be  wildly  elated  or 
unduly  depressed!  In  the  very  first  journal  she 
opened  Stella  found  her  name  linked  with  severest 
strictures.  The  critic  was  merciless,  but  she  was 
forced  to  acknowledge  that  he  was  just.  This  gall 
tasted  the  more  bitterly  because  the  honey  of  unquali- 
fied praise  still  lingered  on  her  lips. 

As  she  walked  to  rehearsal,  with  her  veil  thickly 
folded  over  her  face,  and  her  eyes  bent  on  the  ground, 
she  felt  like  some  guilty  creature,  whose  misdeeds 
were  the  theme  of  every  tongue.  She  could  not  bear 
to  encounter  the  members  of  the  company.  She  was 
certain  they  would  triumph  over  her  threatened 
downfall. 

A  repetition  of  Evadne  was  selected  for  that  night. 
The  rehearsal  was  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  That  tragedy 
was  to  be  enacted  on  the  succeeding  evening.  Mr. 
Belton  had  called  a  rehearsal  both  on  Tuesday  and 
Wednesday,  that  Stella  might  be  familiarized  with 
the  varying  character  of  Juliet. 

"  What  ails  you,  my  dear  child  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Fairfax,  who  was  representing  Juliet's  garrulous 
nurse,  —  a  master-piece  of  acting. 

Stella  drew  her  aside,  before  she  replied, 


160  STELLA. 

"  You  did  not  see  last  night's  shameful  failure  ; 
you  were  not  here  !  " 

"  No  ;  but,  of  course,  I  heard  of  it :  one  hears 
everything  in  a  theatre.  A  novice  should  not  have 
undertaken  Beatrice.  But,  as  Mr.  Tennent  selects 
the  plays,  of  course  you  had  no  choice. " 

"  I  never  suffered  so  much  in  my  life  !  I  did  not 
know  that  I  could  endure  such  frightful  sensations. 
My  head  has  felt  as  though  it  were  bursting  ever 
since,  and  I  hardly  know  what  I  am  doing." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Rosenvelt,"  said  the  experienced 
actress,  taking  both  of  the  young  girl's  hands  in  her 
own,  "  this  is  the  ordeal  through  which  all  who  at- 
tain eminence  must  inevitably  pass.  Bo  not  let  it 
conquer  you.  Rouse  yourself,  and  you  will  be  vic- 
torious over  these  trials." 

Stella  was  not  consoled.  She  exclaimed,  in  a  tone 
of  anguish,  "  0,  I  feel  so  humiliated  !  I  cannot  bear 
to  lift  my  eyes  to  any  face.  What  a  presumptuous 
fool  all  these  people  must  think  me  !  How  evidently 
they  scorn  me  ! " 

"Not  exactly  ;  but,  give  actors  a  fair  chance,  and 
they  are  sure  to  ridicule  one  another.  They  particu- 
larly rejoice  over  the  dimming  of  a  star,  because  it 
proves  that  there  is  not  such  decided  superiority  of 
the  greater  luminaries  over  the  lesser.  Act  greatly 
to-night !  Personate  Evadne  as  they  tell  me  you  did 
a  few  evenings  ago,  and  your  Beatrice  will  sink  into 
oblivion  ;  all  memory  of  it  will  be  lost  in  their  admi- 
ration." 

"  See,"  said  Stella,  baring  her  lacerated  and  now 
inflamed  arms.  "  We  fight  for  favor  here,  and  may 
glory  in  our  scars,  it  seems.     There  were  nails  pur- 


STEL//A.  161 

posely  thrust  in  the  statue,  to  tear  my  arms  when  I 
clasped  it,  and  to  hinder  my  delivering  Evadne's 
noble  rebuke  to  the  king.  But  the  nails  did  not 
make  me  flinch  ;  they  could  not  have  stopped  me, 
had  they  pierced  the  very  soles  of  my  feet !  " 

"  What  a  cruel  act !  Who  could  have  done  that  ? 
Was  it  not,  perhaps,  some  carelessness  of  the  prop- 
erty-man ?  " 

Stella  communicated  her  suspicions  concerning 
the  perpetrator  of  the  deed. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  sighed.  "  I  know  too  well  that  the 
tendency  of  this  profession  is  to  generate  the  bitterest 
sensations  of  envy  in  narrow  natures.  I  have  even 
seen  husbands  and  wives  so  envious  of  each  other, 
that  when  their  dramatic  talents  were  unequally  con- 
trasted, the  most  rancorous  hatred  seemed  to  exist 
between  them.  But  to  liberal  and  well-regulated 
minds  these  passions  find  no  admission,  or  they  are 
only  called  forth  to  be  conquered." 

"And  this  —  this  is  the  life"  exclaimed  Stella, 
bitterly,  "which  so  many  young,  light-hearted  be- 
ings, who  watch  the  brilliant  actress  through  her 
brief  hours  of  triumph,  are  panting  to  adopt !  — which 
they  believe  to  be  so  full  of  allurements,  of  bewilder- 
ing delights  !     This  life,  which  —  " 

"Nurse  and  Juli  —  et  —  et  —  et!"  shouted  Fisk  ; 
and  Stella  could  not  proceed. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  had  not  given  her  falsely  flattering 
hopes.  Her  shortcomings  in  Beatrice  were  not  only 
forgotten  by  the  actors,  but  by  the  audience,  when 
they  beheld  her  grand  performance  of  Evadne  ;  — 
forgotten  by  every  one  but  herself.  But  the  excited 
state  of  her  mind  only  intensified  her  embodiment. 


162  STELLA. 

She  was  deaf  to  Miss  Doran's  sneers,  unconscious 
of  her  impertinent  surveillance.  The  spectators  re- 
warded her  with  an  unprecedented  ovation.  But 
did  Stella's  former  exultant  state  return  ?  No  ; 
while  she  stood  before  the  audience,  she  lost  all 
recollection  of  herself ;  but,  the  scene  once  over,  the 
words  of  the  pitiless  critic  haunted  her  again. 

Her  slumbers  were  not  more  soothing  than  were 
those  of  the  preceding  night.  She  was  represent- 
ing Evadne,  in  place  of  Beatrice  ;  but,  no  longer 
acting  in  triumph,  she  imagined  herself  delivering 
the  language  in  a  ludicrous  bombastic  tone  ;  now  for- 
getting the  words ;  now  constrained,  in  spite  of  her- 
self, to  adopt  Miss  Doran's  inflated  style  ;  now 
pierced  to  the  very  heart  by  bayonet-like  nails ;  now 
frantically  clinging  to  the  statue,  which  gave  way 
and  fell,  crushing  her  with  its  ponderous  weight. 

When  Mrs.  Fairfax  met  her  young  favorite  at  the 
second  rehearsal  of  Juliet,  she  was  struck  by  the 
strangeness  of  her  manner,  the  incoherence  of  her 
replies,  the  wild  gleaming  of  her  eyes,  her  crimson 
cheeks  and  burning  hands. 

"My  dear  Miss  Kosenvelt !  —  Stella,  do  try  to 
calm  yourself !  These  excitements  are  too  much  for 
you.     I  fear  you  are  ill  —  quite  ill !  " 

"  111  ?  No,  no  !  »  laughed  Stella.  "  You  see  I  can 
laugh  at  the  very  idea.  Nobody  must  be  ill  here  ! 
nobody  must  suffer  !  Or,  if  they  do,  they  must  seem 
as  if  they  did  not.  One  must  enjoy  an  immunity  from 
all  mortal  ills,  to  be  an  actress.  Such  are  the  stage's 
tyrannous  requirements.  It 's  quite  laughable  !  It 
makes  me  merry  !  If  I  could  only  have  laughed  so 
in  Beatrice  !   Don't  look  at  me  with  such  an  alarmed 


STELLA.  163 

face.  I  'm  not  ill ;  I  'm  nothing  but  what  Juliet  was. 
Her  head  must  have  grown  giddy  after  she  quaffed 
the  potion,  and  swam  as  mine  does  now.  But  /have 
only  drank  the  draught  which  the  kind,  judicious, 
lenient  public  offered.  It  may  poison  —  who  knows  ? 
But  I  '11  not  throw  away  the  cup  until  I  reach  the 
dregs  ! " 

There  was  an  unsettled  look  in  her  glittering 
eyes,  an  abruptness  in  her  speech,  which  became 
more  and  more  apparent.  Mrs.  Fairfax  took  Mattie 
aside  : 

"  I  am  distressed  about  Miss  Rosenvelt ;  she  has 
studied  too  much.  I  am  afraid  of  the  effect  of  this 
constant  tension  of  her  nerves.  Will  not  her  mother 
persuade  her  to  take  a  few  days'  rest  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  ma'am,  how  is  Miss  Stella  to  be  persuaded  ? 
She  will  have  her  own  way,  —  that's  her  one  fault. 
When  I  talk  to  her,  she  tells  me  that  she  has  bound 
herself  to  the  hardest  of  task-masters,  the  public, 
and  that  the  public  will  not  allow  her  to  rest  with- 
out stripping  her  of  the  honors  she  has  won." 

"  But  her  mother's  urgent  entreaty  would  have 
some  weight  ?  " 

"Her  mother  could  hardly  be  made  to  see  her 
state  ;  if  she  did,  she  would  only  grieve,  but  not 
argue  with  her.  My  mistress  never  could  bear  the 
exertion  of  doing  that." 

Mrs.  Fairfax  was  not  to  be  discouraged  in  her 
attempt  to  snatch  this  young  girl  from  her  perilous 
situation.  She  had  met  Ernest  Rosenvelt  in  the  pro- 
fession, and  resolved  to  write  and  warn  him  of  his 
sister's  danger. 

Stella's  state  throughout  the  day  gave  Mattie  deep 


164  STELLA. 

concern.  Sudden  bursts  of  hilarity  were  succeeded 
by  fits  of  gloom  ;  deep,  abstracted  silence,  by  volu- 
ble mirth.  Her  mother  told  her  that  she  had  grown 
eccentric  since  she  became  an  actress.  Mattie  looked 
at  her  sorrowfully,  and  entreated  her  to  rest.  When 
it  wanted  but  half  an  hour  of  the  time  at  which  she 
must  leave  for  the  theatre,  she  was  persuaded  to  lie 
down.  She  fastened  her  watch  to  the  pillow,  in 
dread  that  the  moments  would  slip  away  unnoted  — 
that  she  would  be  late.  She  closed  her  eyes  for  a 
few  seconds,  then  roused  herself  to  look  at  the  watch, 
then  shut  her  eyes  again,  but  in  a  minute  turned  to 
the  watch  again ;  and  in  this  manner  the  half-hour 
passed. 

Shortly  before  she  appeared  upon  the  stage,  that 
night,  she  encountered  Perdita,  weeping  bitterly. 
Floy  was  trying  to  console  her,  in  a  strange,  affec- 
tionate fashion  of  his  own,  patting  her  wet  cheeks, 
smoothing  down  her  hair,  laying  his  uncouth  face 
on  her  shoulder,  and  whispering  to  her,  tenderly, 
"Such  a  house!  such  a  house!"  as  though  that 
information  were  a  panacea  for  all  human  ills.  His 
language  was  limited  to  two  or  three  phrases,  and 
these  were  the  only  words  he  ever  used  in  the  theatre. 
His  feelings  were  conveyed  by  variations  of  tone,  as 
expressive  as  the  most  appropriate  utterance. 

And  why  was  the  usually  tranquil  Perdita  weep- 
ing so  violently  ?  Stella  paused  to  inquire,  though 
her  question  was  oddly  framed. 

"  Tears,  Perdita,  off  the  stage  !  Tears  !  what 
sheer  waste  of  dramatic  material !  We  all  '  weep 
for  hire  '  here,  and  can't  afford  to  spend  our  tears  for 


STELLA.  165 

naught.  Paint  them  this  passion  before  the  foot- 
lights, or  what  is  the  good  of  tears  ?  " 

**  Such  a  house  !  such  a  house  !  "  reiterated  Floy, 
rebukingly  ;  his  intonation  conveyed  that  it  was  very 
ungrateful  of  Perdita  to  weep  when  she  had  that  first 
of  theatrical  blessings,  a  crowded  audience. 

Stella  pressed  the  sobbing  girl  for  an  explanation. 
Her  father,  whose  duty  it  was  to  represent  one  of 
the  guests  at  Capulet's  festival,  had  entered  the 
theatre  in  such  a  besotted  condition  that  he  could 
not  even  be  persuaded  to  dress.  He  would  be  dis- 
missed if  he  failed  to  appear.  The  ball-room  was 
so  scantily  supplied  with  guests  that  his  absence 
would  undoubtedly  be  noticed.  What  was  to  become 
of  him,  if  he  lost  this  situation  ?  Unworthy  as  he 
appeared,  Perdita  was  devotedly  attached  to  her  de- 
graded parent : 

•«  For,  like  the  lowly  reed,  her  love 
Could  drink  its  nurture  from  the  scantiest  rill." 

She  would  rather  a  misfortune  befell  herself,  or  even 
her  witless  brother,  than  be  visited  on  him. 

11  Where  is  your  father  ?  "  asked  Stella. 

"There  he  lies." 

He  was  doubled  up  in  a  corner,  not  very  distant 
from  the  prompter's  seat,  sleeping  so  profoundly  that 
there  was  very  little  chance  of  rousing  him. 

"  Juliet  call  —  all  —  all  —  ailed  !  "  said  Fisk,  ca- 
pering up  to  her  ;  and  then  he  added,  "  Look  out  for 
fun  to-night ;  Pottle  's  your  maternal  antecedent,  and 
is  n't  she  rigged  off  within  an  inch  of  her  life  !  Only 
the  fun  's  gone  out  of  her,  a  deal,  since  the  night  of 
the  fire.  Wan't  that  a  fine  conflagration  of  her  own  ? 
But  Pottle 's  got  the  blues! " 


166  STELLA. 

Juliet  appeared  upon  the  stage  for  a  few  moments 
with  her  nurse  and  mother,  and  then  was  led  by  Paris 
into  the  ball-room  of  Capulet's  stately  mansion.  Im- 
mediately after  she  entered,  the  dancing  commenced. 
Stella  sat  watching  Perdita's  pliant  form  floating 
through  the  dance.  The  aeriality  of  her  motions, 
and  the  pensive  sweetness  of  her  countenance, 
rendered  her  conspicuous  among  her  less-refined 
companions. 

0,  light,  glancing  feet  of  the  poor  ballet-girl !  who, 
in  that  admiring  audience,  dreams  of  the  heavy  heart 
thou  art  bearing  through  the  mazes  of  the  dance  ? 
Who  imagines  that  the  limbs  thou  art  moving  so 
gracefully  to  harmonious  sounds  are  weighted  down 
by  aching  weariness  ;  that  the  glittering  gauds  which 
rise  and  fall  with  every  breath  are  stirred  by  the 
beating  of  anguish-quickened  pulses  ? 

Juliet  was  the  most  faultless  of  all  Stella's  person- 
ations. She  threw  off  the  trammels  of  stage  conven- 
tionalities, and  struck  out  new  beauties,  undiscovered 
by  the  hackneyed  actress  who  treads  in  the  beaten 
steps  of  some  great  predecessor.  Stella's  embodi- 
ment was  characterized  by  an  impassioned  self-aban- 
donment that  bore  her  spectators  with  her  as  upon  an 
impetuous  tide.  Her  audience  became  a  finely-tuned 
instrument  in  her  hands,  and  responded  to  the  plain- 
tive sweeping,  the  loud  smiting  of  the  strings,  — 
shared  in  her  dreamy  musings  ;  her  ingenuous,  im- 
pulsive confessions  to  Romeo  ;  her  sportive  cajoling 
of  her  nurse  ;  her  bursts  of  pretty  petulance ;  and, 
as  the  character  of  Juliet  gradually  expands,  echoed 
her  devotion,  her  intense  agony,  her  heroism,  her 
firmness  of  purpose,  and  the  horrors  through  which 


STELLA.  16T 

her  spirit  is  plunged  when  she  quaffs  the  Friar's 
potion,  and,  calling  upon  the  name  of  Romeo,  sinks 
into  death-like  insensibility. 

The  fourth  act  of  the  play  closes  with  the  entranced 
Juliet  lying  on  her  couch,  surrounded  by  her  weep- 
ing parents,  her  nurse,  her  affianced  husband,  and  the 
holy  Friar.  The  scene  was  near  its  conclusion  when 
suddenly  there  was  heard  a  crashing  fall  behind  the 
scenes,  accompanied  by  a  loud  cry  of  horror.  One 
side  of  the  curtain  rapidly  descended,  but  without 
injuring  any  one  upon  the  stage,  for  the  performers 
were  all  gathered  around  Juliet's  bed.  A  ponderous 
weight,  by  means  of  which  the  curtain  was  elevated, 
had  given  way.  The  opposite  side  of  the  curtain 
was  now  carefully  lowered.  Stella,  though  she  was 
startled  by  the  sound  of  the  heavy  fall,  did  not  stir 
until  the  audience  were  excluded  from  view.  As 
she  rose  up,  she  beheld  a  crowd  of  actors  all  run- 
ning towards  one  corner,  near  the  seat  of  the 
prompter.  She  was  eagerly  following  them,  when 
Mrs.  Fairfax  threw  her  arms  about  her,  and  forcibly 
attempted  to  impede  her  progress,  ejaculating,  "  Come 
back  !  don't  look  !  don't  look  !  It  is  too  horrible  ! 
0,  poor  fellow !  " 

Stella  had  already  caught  one  glimpse  of  the  pros- 
trate figure  ;  the  head  crushed  in  by  the  iron  weight ; 
the  spouting  crimson  stream ;  the  limbs  still  writh- 
ing in  a  death  agony. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?  "  gasped  Perdita,  press- 
ing through  the  throng,  followed  by  Floy.  "Not 
my  father  !  0,  not  my  father !  He  would  lie  there  !  " 
Mr.  Martin  seized  Perdita's  arm,  and  held  her  back. 
Floy  had  thrown  himself  on  the  body,  and,  at  the 


168  STELLA. 

sound  of  his  piteous  lamentations,  she  broke  from  the 
actor's  grasp. 

Stella,  completely  stunned,  was  supported  by  Mrs. 
Fairfax. and  Mattie.  Mr.  Finch's  voice  reached  their 
ears.  He  was  addressing  the  prompter.  "  Bid  the 
orchestra  strike  up  quickly,  that  the  audience  may 
not  hear  that  poor  boy's  cries.  If  they  get  wind  of 
this  accident,  the  theatre  will  be  empty  in  a  moment. 
The  shock  will  hurt  our  business  for  a  week.  Make 
haste,  Allsop  !  Don't  stand  there,  man,  as  though  you 
were  petrified  !  Speak  to  them  through  the  trumpet. 
Make  them  play  loudly,  at  once." 

Such  was  the  stage-manager's  cold-blooded  order, 
in  the  very  presence  of  death ! 

Stella,  with  a  convulsive  movement,  slipped 
through  the  arms  that  supported  her,  and  sank  upon 
the  ground.  She  had  now  lost  all  self-control,  and 
broke  forth  into  a  succession  of  hysterical  screams 
and  sobs. 

Mr.  Finch  lifted  her  in  his  strong  arms,  and  bore 
her  shrieking  to  her  room.  Poor  Mattie  was  almost 
distracted.  Mrs.  Fairfax,  with  tender  care,  used  her 
best  efforts  to  restore  the  composure  of  the  horror- 
stricken  girl.  Her  labors  proved  quite  fruitless. 
After  a  time,  Mr.  Belton  knocked  for  admission.  He 
entered,  took  a  seat  beside  Stella,  and  addressed  her 
somewhat  austerely. 

"  Miss  Rosenvelt,  you  really  must  compose  yourself. 
It  is  absolutely  necessary.  You  cannot  be  indulged 
any  longer.  The  play  has  been  interrupted  for  some 
time.  Fortunately  the  audience  is  kept  in  ignor- 
ance of  the  sad  accident,  but  the  curtain  has  been 
down  for  such  an  interval  that  the  people  are  now 


STELLA.  169 

becoming  impatient.  I  must  insist  upon  your  ex- 
erting more  self-control,  and  preparing  to  finish  your 
part." 

The  unexpected,  the  apparently  inhuman  request, 
amazed  Stella  into  sudden  quietude. 

"My  part!  I  can't  —  I  can't  act  any  more  to- 
night !  I  can't,  after  witnessing  that  terrible  sight, — 
that  dying  man,  his  wretched  children ! — the  audience 
cannot  expect  it." 

"  The  audience  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  private 
distresses  of  those  whose  business  it  is  to  entertain 
them,"  replied  Mr.  Belton,  in  a  severe  tone.  "  The 
play  cannot  be  interrupted.  You  have  but  one  short 
scene  more,  in  which  you  have  only  a  few  lines  to 
utter ;  you  must  manage  to  get  through  them." 

"  Impossible  !  " 

M  Very  possible,  if  you  will  make  the  effort.  Prob- 
ably you  thought  it  impossible  to  stop  screaming,  a 
moment  ago.  We  are  losing  time.  Mrs.  Fairfax,  I 
depend  upon  your  kindness  to  hasten  Miss  Kosen- 
velt's  preparations.     Bring  her  down  at  once." 

There  was  an  intonation  of  command  in  Mr.  Bel- 
ton's  voice  that  compelled  obedience.  He  left  the 
room,  and  Mrs.  Fairfax,  without  a  remark,  com- 
menced unfastening  Stella's  dress,  that  it  might  be 
exchanged  for  the  rich  garments  in  which,  according 
to  the  custom  of  her  country,  Juliet  is  decked  for  her 
interment.  Mrs.  Fairfax's  manner  seemed  to  imply 
that  there  was  no  appeal  from  Mr.  Belton' s  decision. 
His  voice  was  "  all-potential."  Stella  was  so  much 
awed,  bewildered,  astonished,  that  she  could  not  re- 
sist.     During  her  rapid  toilet  the  wild  expression 


1*70  STELLA. 

which  had  before  attracted  Mrs.  Fairfax's  attention 
returned  to  her  eyes. 

Fisk  came  to  the  door,  but  his  voice  was  subdued  to 
a  husky  whisper,  as  he  announced  that  Mr.  Belton  had 
sent  him,  with  his  compliments,  to  say  that  the  curtain 
had  risen.  Mattie  noticed  that  the  boy's  face  was 
blanched,  and  he  shook  from  head  to  foot.  He  was 
standing  so  near  the  spot,  when  the  accident  occurred, 
that  his  shoes  were  stained  with  the  spirting  blood. 

"  Come,  my  dear,  let  us  go  down/'  said  Mrs. 
Fairfax.  "  The  scenes  are  not  very  long  before 
Romeo  bursts  open  the  tomb,  and  I  want  to  arrange 
you  comfortably. " 

Assisted  by  Mattie,  she  almost  carried  the  young 
girl  down  the  stairs.  They  laid  her  upon  the  narrow 
sable-covered  couch,  in  the  supposed  ancestral  vault 
of  the  Capulets, —  a  square  enclosure,  formed  of  dark- 
ly-painted scenes.  An  antique  lamp,  which  sent  forth 
a  lurid  light,  was  suspended  from  the  roof.  Stella 
looked  around  with  a  shudder.  Mrs.  Fairfax,  after 
arranging  her  dress  in  smooth  folds,  and  whispering 
a  few  encouraging  words,  prepared  to  close  the 
sepulchre-doors  upon  her.  But  Stella  sprang  up  with 
a  cry,  and  said,  "  Don't  leave  me  !  I  can't  stay  here 
alone, —  indeed,  I  can't ;  and  I  cannot  get  through 
with  the  part !  " 

In  a  moment  the  scene  would  be  changed,  and  the 
tomb  disclosed  to  the  audience  ;  the  doors  could  not 
then  be  opened  until  they  were  broken  through  by 
Romeo. 

"  Fasten  the  doors,"  said  Mrs.  Fairfax  to  the  car- 
penters, who  were  waiting  to  complete  their  duty. 


STELLA.  1T1 

"  I  will  stay  with  Miss  Rosenvelt ;  I  can  hide  myself 
here." 

She  pressed  round  to  the  side  of  the  couch  which 
was  distant  from  the  audience,  and  there  crouched 
down  in  a  painful  position,  but  with  her  hand  clasp- 
ing Stella's. 

The  scene  unclosed.  They  listened  to  the  touch- 
ing tribute  of  Paris  to  the  memory  of  his  lost  Juliet, 
as  he  scattered  flowers  before  her  tomb  : 

"  Sweet  flower,  with  flowers  I  strew  thy  bridal  bed  ; 
Sweet  tomb,  that  in  thy  circuit  dost  contain 
The  perfect  model  of  eternity  ; 
Fair  Juliet,  that  with  angels  dost  remain, 
Accept  this  latest  favor  at  my  hands, 
That,  living,  honored  thee,  and,  being  dead, 
With  funeral  praises  do  adorn  thy  tomb." 

Then  came  the  warning  whistle  of  the  boy,  followed 
by  Romeo's  entrance,  the  combat  between  the 
lovers,  the  death  of  Paris. 

"  Now,  courage,  brave  girl !  In  a  moment  more 
he  will  break  open  the  doors.  Do  not  stir ;  think 
how  much  depends  upon  your  proving  that  you  have 
not  miscalculated  your  own  powers  —  that  you  are 
fitted  for  the  profession  you  have  entered." 

Mrs.  Fairfax  drew  her  hand  away,  and  wholly 
concealed  herself.  The  doors  were  forced  apart. 
Juliet,  in  her  bridal  robes,  lay  motionless  in  sight  of 
the  audience.  In  defiance  of  good  taste,  the  original 
scene  was  here  supplanted  by  a  stage  version  which 
is  preferred  by  actors,  but  denounced  by  all  critics. 
According  to  Shakspeare,  Juliet  does  not  wake  until 
Romeo  is  dead.  In  the  version  sanctioned  by  stage 
custom,    the    "agonies   are   piled"    Olympus-high, 


1*T2  STELLA. 

through  the  meeting  of  the  lovers,  after  Romeo  has 
swallowed  poison.  He  bears  the  wakened  Juliet 
from  the  tomb,  and,  after  a  scene  made  up  of  frantic 
demonstrations,  expires.  Juliet  has  but  a  few  inco- 
herent lines  to  deliver  during  Romeo's  death-strug- 
gles. These  Stella  attempted  to  utter,  but  not  one 
word  was  intelligible.  After  Romeo's  death  she  paid 
no  heed  to  the  friar's  entrance,  made  no  answer  to 
his  queries,  spoke  not  a  single  line  set  down ;  she 
seemed  to  remember  but  one  act  which  she  was  to 
execute,  and  which  would  conclude  the  play.  She 
silently  seized  Romeo's  dagger,  rose  up,  stabbed 
herself,  and  sank  beside  her  lover's  body.  The  wo- 
ful,  haggard  expression  of  her  face,  her  inarticulate 
utterance,  her  evident  mental  and  physical  exhaus- 
tion, gave  effect  even  to  this  abrupt  and  original 
termination.  The  curtain  fell  amidst  a  tumult  of 
applause. 

Not  till  then  was  Mrs.  Fairfax  released  from  her 
painful  captivity. 

Mr.  Belton  requested  Stella  not  to  return  to  her 
room  until  she  had  acknowledged  the  summons  of 
the  audience.  She  answered  him  by  a  vacant  stare, 
but  allowed  herself  to  be  led  across  the  stage  in  front 
of  the  curtain.  Her  look,  as  she  made  a  mechanical 
obeisance,  was  almost  ghastly.  Her  lips  had  not 
yet  been  taught  to  assume  the  forced  professional 
smile  with  which  the  suffering  actress  veils  her  real 
emotions. 

Stella  was  unable  to  walk  home.  Mattie  went  in 
search  of  a  carriage.  She  encounted  Mr.  Percy,  who 
awaited  Stella  at  the  stage-door,  and  related  to  him 
the  terrible  incident  of  the  evening.     He  entreated 


STELLA.         '  173 

her  to  return  to  Miss  Rosenvelt,  and  allow  him  to 
find  a  conveyance. 

Stella  seemed  scarcely  cognizant  of  what  passed 
around  her ;  but,  as  some  one  lifted  her,  with  tender 
solicitude,  into  the  carriage,  she  recognized  the  voice 
which  said,  "You  are  suffering,  and  I  cannot  leave 
you  yet ;  do  not  refuse  me  a  seat." 

Her  silence  was  not  construed  into  denial.  She 
was  totally  unable  to  converse.  Mr.  Percy  would 
not  disturb  her  by  a  question,  though  he  exchanged 
a  few  remarks  with  Mattie,  which  were  chiefly  de- 
signed for  Stella's  ear. 

"Poor  Perdita!  Poor  Perdita!"  sighed  Stella 
several  times ;  but  those  were  the  only  words  she 
uttered. 

15 


CHAPTER    IX. 

The  Watcher. — Orphan  Mourners. —  Perdita' s  Consolations. — 
The  Ballet-Girl's  Sorrows  poured  into  the  Bosom  of  the  High- 
bred Maiden. —  Rehearsal. —  Mr.  TennenVs  Reprimand  of  the 
Novice.  —  Stella's  Strangeness  of  Manner.  —  Performance  of 
Hamlet.  —  Stella's  Unusual  Conduct  behind  the  Scenes.  —  Her 
Interview  with  Mr.  Martin  in  the  Green-Room.  —  A  Change 
in  Fisk.  —  Stella's  Personation  of  Ophelia  Painfully  Real.  — 
Ophelia's  Distribution  of  the  Flowers.  —  Her  La  t  Scene.  — 
Last  Impressive  TVords.  —  Unexpected  Occurrences.  —  Edwin 
Percy  among  the  Audience.  —  His  Vain  Appeals  to  the  Boor- 
Keeper.  —  Excited  Imagination  and  Over-tasked  Brain.  — 
Consultation  of  the  Manager  with  Mrs.  Fairfax  and  Mattie. — 
Stella  removed  to  her  Home.  —  Maternal  Anguish.  —  Devotion 
of  Mrs.  Fairfax.  —  Her  Power  over  Stella.  —  Ravings.  — 
Arrival  of  Ernest.  —  The  Group  beside  the  Bed  of  the  Young 
Actress  one  Fortnight  after  the  Night  of  her  Debut.  —  Restored 
Consciousness.  —  Recognitions.  —  Farewells.  —  Conclusion.  — 
An  Open  Book.  —  A  Voice  from  the  Invisible  World. 

Faithful  Mattie,  without  communicating  her  alarm 
to  Mrs.  Rosenvelt,  watched  without  Stella's  door 
that  livelong  night.  She  could  hear  the  young  girl 
tossing  restlessly  upon  her  pillow,  and  now  and  then 
muttering  unintelligible  words.  "  Perdita !  Poor 
Perdita  !  "  were  the  only  distinct  sounds  that  reached 
Mattie's  ear.  Towards  morning  there  was  an  inter- 
val of  perfect  stillness. 

"  She  has  fallen  asleep  at  last,  thank  Heaven !  ;? 
thought  the  distressed  watcher  ;  and  then  she  stole, 
with  light  tread,  to  her  own  room,  and  lay  down  to 


STELLA.  1?5 

rest.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  have  slept 
more  than  a  few  moments,  when  she  was  awakened 
by  a  touch.     Stella  stood  beside  her. 

"  Is  it  too  early  to  go  yet,  Mattie  ?  No  ;  it  can- 
not be  too  early  —  they  cannot  have  slept  through 
this  fearful  night." 

"  To  go  where,  Miss  Stella,  dear  ?  How  ill  you 
look  !  You  are  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  your  eyes 
have  grown  twice  their  size  in  a  night.  Don't,  don't 
look  so  !     You  frighten  me  sorely." 

"  Get  up,  then,  quickly,  and  let  us  go." 

"  Go  where  ?  " 

"  To  Perdita." 

"  At  this  hour,  Miss  Stella  ?     Why  —  w. 

rt  Mattie,  what  is  the  use  of  arguing  with  me  ? 
You  know  I  am  headstrong  —  I  don't  heed  remon- 
strances —  I  can't  heed  them  ;  /  wish  I  could  —  but  I 
was  never  taught  in  the  days  when  childhood's  plas- 
tic mind  may  be  shaped  at  will.  It 's  too  late  now. 
Affliction  is  the  only  tutor  whose  lessons  I  shall  ever 
heed."  . 

"  Go  back  to  bed,  dear,  for  a  while  —  " 

11  No  ;  do  you  get  up.  I  must  see  those  wretched 
children.  I  shall  never  rest  until  I  do.  You  know 
where  they  live,  for  you  went  for  the  last  piece  of 
lace." 

"  It 's  a  long  walk  for  you  —  a  couple  of  miles,  at 
least.     They  live  quite  in  the  suburbs." 

"  The  more  reason  that  you  should  make  haste. 
We  need  not  return  home ;  I  can  go  from  there  to 
the  theatre." 

"  But  breakfast  ?  " 


176  STELLA. 

"  I  can't  eat ;  if  you  can,  you  may  go  back  while 
I  am  at  the  theatre.     Make  haste  !  " 

Mattie  was  ready  in  a  few  minutes.  Stella  left  a 
hasty  line  to  explain  her  absence  to  Mrs.  Eosenvelt, 
then  they  set  out.  Stella  took  no  notice  of  the  dis- 
tance they  walked,  and  Mattie's  occasional  remarks 
were  unheeded. 

"  This  is  the  place/'  said  the  latter,  stopping  be- 
fore a  very  humble  tenement,  the  door  of  which  stood 
open.     "Perdita's  family  lodge  up  stairs." 

They  entered  the  close,  untidy  dwelling,  and 
ascended  to  the  second  story.  A  low,  continuous 
moaning  told  in  which  room  some  mourner  lamented. 
Stella's  repeated  knocks  were  unanswered,  though 
the  plaintive  sound  still  reached  their  ears.  She 
lifted  the  latch  softly,  and  they  entered. 

The  body  of  the  deceased  lay  on  a  mattress  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  A  sheet  covered  all  but  one 
arm.  Floy  was  extended  on  the  ground  beside  the 
corpse.  The  lifeless  hand  was  clasped  in  his,  and  he 
lifted  one  cold  finger  after  the  other,  and  let  them 
drop  again,  wailing  piteously  as  every  one  fell.  How 
fondly  he  touched  that  very  hand  which  turned  the 
fatal  key,  and  locked  the  light  of  reason  from  his 
brain  !  He  seemed  to  be  struggling  to  comprehend 
that  this  hand  was  powerless  now  —  powerless  for- 
ever ! 

Perdita  sat  at  the  head  of  the  corpse.  The  tears 
that  rolled  slowly  down  her  wan  face  glittered  upon 
the  shroud  she  was  making.  She  was  as  still,  as 
collected,  as  ever ;  her  spirit  had  long  been  nurtured 
by  "  Adversity's  sweet  milk,"  patience.     With  her 


STELLA  .  1*1*1 

**  Each  grief,  through  meekness,  settled  into  rest." 

Inevitable  affliction  awakened  no  tumultuous  sorrow. 

There  was  one  other  occupant  of  the  chamber.  In 
the  furthest  corner,  sleeping  in  her  chair,  Stella 
recognized  the  homely  features  of  the  kind-hearted 
but  eccentric  Mrs.  Pottle. 

It  was  not  until  Stella  accosted  Perdita  that  she 
looked  up. 

"  I  could  not  rest  until  I  had  seen  you,  Perdita  !  " 
Stella  sat  down  by  her  side.  "  I  could  not  rest  until 
I  knew  how  you  bore  this  misfortune." 

"  It  does  not  break  my  heart ;  that  cannot  break, 
or  it  would  have  broken  long  ago  !  But  of  all,  all 
other  trials,  this  is  the  most  fearful !  To  die  with- 
out one  parting  word  —  one  blessing  ;  to  be  hurried 
away  so  unprepared  —  and  in  his  state  —  that  is 
more  dreadful  than  all !  " 

Stella  knew  not  what  to  answer.  Her  silence 
seemed  to  imply  that  there  was  no  consolation  that 
could  be  offered. 

"And  yet  he  could  not  have  died,"  continued 
Perdita,  as  if  she  divined  her  thoughts,  "  even  by 
what  people  call  an  accident,  if  the  fittest  moment  he 
could  ever  have  known  on  earth  had  not  arrived. 
The  summons  that  comes  unawares  to  man  is  known 
to  God ;  there  are  no  accidents  but  of  his  permission. 
He  overrules  them  for  good  ;  he  chooses  the  best 
hour  for  us  all,  though  it  may  not  always  seem  so. 
No,  my  father  could  not  have  died,  had  not  death 
been  better  for  him  than  life." 

"Do  you  believe  that?"  asked  Stella,  doubtingly. 

"I  do  ;  my  mother  taught  it  to  me.     It  was  the 


178  STELLA. 

consolation  she  gave  her  children  when  she  was 
dying.  Something  within  me  bears  witness  to  its 
truth." 

Stella  was  silent  again.  Perdita  fancied  she  was 
pondering  upon  ill  reports  she  had  heard  of  the 
departed. 

"  Do  not  judge  him  harshly,"  pleaded  the  devoted 
daughter.  "  God  will  not  judge  him  so ;  for  he 
knows  the  heart,  and  tempers  all  judgment  with 
mercy.  We  are  commanded  'judge  not ; '  and  do 
not  —  do  not  you,  who  knew  nothing  of  his  tri- 
als, his  temptations,  his  sorrows,  judge  my  poor 
father ! " 

"Heaven  forbid!  I  only  came  to  comfort  you, 
Perdita." 

"Your  coming  itself,  your  presence,  comforts 
me.  But  my  brother  —  Floy!  Floy!  will  you  not 
speak  to  Miss  Rosenvelt  ?  " 

But  Floy  raised  not  his  face.  He  continued  caress- 
ing the  frozen  hand,  and  lifting  one  by  one  the  stiff- 
ening fingers,  and  letting  them  drop  again,  moaning 
as  before. 

Mattie  had  taken  the  half-finished  shroud  out  of 
Perdita's  hands,  and  went  on  with  the  sad  task. 
The  high-bred  maiden  and  the  humble  ballet-dancer 
sat  side  by  side,  conversing  as  sisters.  Perdita' s 
full  heart  unclosed  ;  her  sorrows  were  poured  freely 
forth.  She  pictured  her  mother's  struggles  in  the 
theatre, —  her  wasting  away,  yet  laboring  to  the 
last;  —  her  placid  death, —  the  husband's  anguish, — 
the  envies  and  injustice  through  which  he  lost  his 
position  in  the  profession, —  the   revolution   in  his 


STELLA.  H9 

temper, —  the  mad  infatuation  which  lured  him  to 
seek  relief,  oblivion,  in  the,  bowl. 

"And  have  you  no  friends  ? "  asked  Stella; 
"  none  ?" 

"What  time  could  we  have  to  devote  to  friend- 
ships ?  We  are  always  so  busy!  But  that"  — 
pointing"  to  the  slumberer  in  the  corner — "that  is 
one  of  the  kindest  friends  we  ever  had,  odd  as  she 
is." 

"  But  how  do  you  expect  to  live  now  ?  M 

"  We  can  only  go  on  as  before.  That  good  Mrs. 
Pottle  has  promised  to  raise  a  subscription  in  the 
theatre  for  my  father's"  —  she  seemed  choked  by 
the  words  —  "his  funeral.  Day  after  to-morrow  it 
will  be  over.  On  Monday  I  will  be  forced  to  return 
to  the  theatre." 

"  So  soon  ?" 

"  Yes ;  we  are  too  poor,  too  miserably  poor, 
to  be  able  to  give  up  even  one  week's  salary.  It 
was  the  same  when  my  mother  died.  They  gave  me 
no  time  to  recover  from  the  shock.  The  public  did 
not  care  ;  how  could  the  manager  ?  All  goes  on 
the  same  ;  my  place  in  the  ballet  must  be  filled, —  if 
not  by  me,  some  one  else  is  engaged,  and  I  may  be 
left  to  starve." 

Mattie  had  completed  the  shroud.  This  caused 
Stella  to  look  at  her  watch.  The  hour  for  rehearsal 
had  already  arrived.  She  took  a  hurried  leave,  after 
kindly  pressing  Perdita's  hand,  and  trying  unsuc- 
cessfully to  rouse  the  mourning  boy. 

Mr.  Tennent,  oblivious  of  his  own  example,  re- 
marked somewhat  severely  upon  Miss  Rosenvelt's 
want  of  punctuality.     It  was  a  bad  sign,  he  said,  in 


180  STELLA. 

a  novice  ;  p  arelessness  did  not  augur  well  for 

her  future  sucxr  W. 

"  Come,  come  !  there  has  been  delay  enough  ! 
Allsop,  be  so  good  as  to  go  on  with  rehearsal.  Make 
your  calls,  Fisk,"  said  Mr.  Finch,  in  a  displeased 
tone. 

Stella  made  no  apology. 

The  play  was  Hamlet.  Mrs.  Fairfax  enacted  the 
Queen-mother.  She  was  the  only  person  to  whom 
the  young  actress  that  morning  paid  the  slightest 
attention, —  whom  she  even  deigned  to  answer. 

"  There  is  something  very  singular  about  Miss 
Rosenvelt,"  whispered  Mrs.  Fairfax  to  Belton.  "Do 
you  see  how  her  eyes  glisten  ?  For  several  days  I 
have  thought  she  was  in  a  high  fever ;  I  am  sure  of 
it  now." 

"  I  dare  say ;  she  is  so  excitable,  and  has  not  been 
trained  to  govern  her  feelings.  Will  she  be  able  to 
get  through  Ophelia  to-night  ?  That  's  the  .question. 
We  have  no  substitute, —  Miss  Doran  can't  sing  a 
note." 

"  Stella  will  get  through,  I  have  no  doubt ;  but  I 
am  troubled  about  her.  She  is  such  a  lovely  being, 
—  so  full  of  soul,  of  genuine  love  for  her  art ! 
She  is  eveiy thing  that  the  stage  most  needs.  Do 
give  her  rest,  as  soon  as  you  can.  She  is  over- 
tasked ;  don't  crowd  her  brain  with  fresh  study." 

11  You  are  right ;  as  soon  as  Tennent's  engagement 
is  over,  I  will  advise  her  to  recruit  for  a  week.  No 
doubt  she  will  stand  the  wear  and  tear  for  three 
nights  more." 

The  peculiarity  of  manner  which  she  had  remarked 
at  rehearsal  became   even  more  apparent  to  Mrs. 


STELLA.  181 

Fairfax  at  night.  Stella's  unwon  meaningless 
bursts  of  merriment,  as  she  wandereu.  about  behind 
the  scenes,  even  attracted  the  observation  of  the 
actors.  During  her  brief  professional  career  she 
had  hardly  exchanged  a  word  with  any  of  the  com- 
pany, save  Mrs.  Fairfax,  Perdita,  and  Fisk ;  now  she 
talked  at  random  with  every  one  whom  she  met, 
sometimes  jokingly,  sometimes  in  a  vein  of  biting 
sarcasm.  In  her  restlessness,  she  entered  the  green- 
room. Mr.  Martin  was  extended  on  his  customary 
bench.  He  was  dressed  as  Ophelia's  grave-digger. 
Stella  abruptly  accosted  him  with 

"  Are  you  a  Catholic  ? " 

"Yes  —  and  no,"  replied  Mr.  Martin,  surprised 
and  gratified  at  her  desire  to  converse  with  him. 
"A  Catholic,  but  not  a  Roman  Catholic.  Why  do 
you  ask  ?     Did  you  imagine  that  I  was  one  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  because  you  are  accepting  y out  purgatory 
here.  What  a  glorious  life  you  lead,  with  your  dark 
enemy,  the  rheumatism,  dragging  you  one  way,  and 
your  tyrant,  the  public,  forcing  you  the  other ! 
Glorious  !  How  many  years  have  you  sang  over 
your  mock  grave-digging,  to  make  the  reflecting 
audience  laugh  ?  '■*■ 

11 1  believe  I  first  played  Ophelia's  grave-digger 
about  twenty  years  ago." 

"  Twenty  years  digging,  and  you  have  n't  buried 
Ophelia  yet, —  nor  your  own  wits  ?  Make  an  end 
of  her  to-night !  Bury  struggles,  and  hopes,  and 
dreams  ;  bury  sell-will  and  madness,  altogether  !  *' 

Mr.  Martin  placed  his  crutches  on  the  ground, 
and,  supported  by  shaking  hands,  rose  up  in  con- 
sternation. 

16 


182  STELLA  . 

"  Miss  Rosenvelt,  I  am  afraid "     He  looked 

her  steadily  in  the  face,  and  could  not  finish  the 
sentence. 

She  laughed  until  the  old  walls  rang  with  the 
clear,  piercing  sound  ;  it  reached  the  very  stage. 

"That's  the  Beatrice  laugh!  do  you  hear?  I 
have  learned  it  at  last.  What  a  misery  it  was  not 
to  be  able  to  laugh  before  !  But  I  shall  do  nothing 
but  laugh  now,  in  this  merry,  merry  place  !  Last 
night  a  man  was  killed  here,  and  did  n't  we  all  laugh 
as  his  spirit  was  taking  its  flight?  An  actor's  laugh 
was  an  actor's  fittest  knell." 

There  was  no  acting  in  good  Mr.  Martin's  emo- 
tion.    He  turned  to  Mattie,  and  whispered, 

"Take  her  home,  for  pity's  sake  !  She  can't  get 
through.  Where  is  Mr.  Belton  ?  I  will  try  to  find 
him." 

The  old  man  regarded  Stella  once  more  with  a 
look  of-mingled  tenderness  and  pity,  then  hobbled  in 
search  of  the  manager. 

"  Ophelia  called  !  "  said  Fisk.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  approached  her  without  a  monkey- 
gambol.  The  impression  left  by  the  appalling  acci- 
dent had  not  yet  worn  away. 

"  Called  !  what  for  ?  What  is  it  ?  Ophelia  —  yes, 
I  remember.  Mattie,  where  is  the  book  ?  I  have 
forgotten  every  line.    Quickly,  quickly, —  the  book !  " 

"  I  '11  fetch  it,  dear,  from  your  dressing-room," 
replied  Mattie. 

"  I  have  a  copy,"  said  Fisk.  He  ran  off,  and  re- 
turned immediately  with  the  play,  found  the  right 
place,  and  gave  the  open  volume  into  Stella's  hands. 


STELLA.  183 

This  was  done  with  a  grave,  thoughtful  kindness, 
very  different  from  Fisk's  usual  manner. 

Stella's  thoughts  were  quickly  concentrated  on 
the  part  before  her.  As  her  cue  was  given,  she 
smiled  upon  Fisk,  returned  the  book,  and  walked 
calmly  on  the  stage.  Not  a  single  syllable  of  the 
language  was  obliterated  from  her  memory.  She 
spoke  and  moved  as  Ophelia  might  have  done  before 
her  mind  became 

"  Like  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune,  and  harsh." 

Mr.  Martin  had  summoned  Mr.  Belton,  and  stood 
with  him  at  the  first  entrance,  regarding  her. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Martin,  you  are  growing  fanciful 
yourself, "  said  the  latter.  "There  is  nothing  at  all 
the  matter  with  Miss  Rosenvelt.  She  is  delivering 
those  lines  beautifully,  and  she  goes  through  the 
business  of  the  scene  with  perfect  propriety." 

"  If  you  had  seen  her  in  the  green-room,  you 
would  have  thought  that,  like  poor  Ophelia,  she  was 

1  Divided  from  herself  and  her  fair  judgment,'  " 

returned  Mr.  Martin,  positively.  "  She  almost  fright- 
ened me  out  of  my  senses.  I  tell  you  this  character 
has  made  a  fatal  impression  on  her  mind.  At  all 
events,  she  is  over-worked ;  nobody  can  deny  that. 
It  ?s  downright  cruelty,  to  my  thinking.  If  she  were 
a  child  of  mine,  I  —  " 

"  Why,  Martin,  this  girl  has  bewitched  you  all ! 
You  are  as  bad  as  Mrs.  Fairfax,  who  loves  her  as 
though  she  were  her  own.  But  make  yourself  easy ; 
as  soon  as  Tennent's  engagement  is  over,  I  will  give 


184  STELLA. 

her  a  holiday.  She  will  stand  two  nights  more  very- 
well." 

M  Take  care  how  you  lay  the  last  feather  on  your 
camel's  back !  "  growled  Martin,  and  he  limped  back 
to  the  green-room. 

When  Stella  appeared  upon  the  stage  in  the  fourth 
act,  —  her  hair  unbound  and  dishevelled,  her  eyes 
dilated  until  they  appeared  of  the  jettiest  black,  and 
luminous  with  the  peculiar  light  of  insanity,  her 
white  drapery  disordered,  her  movements  rapid  and 
uncertain,  — her  personation  of  the  distraught  Ophelia 
became  painfully  real. 

As  she  sang, 

"  He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady, 
He  is  dead  and  gone  ; 
At  his  head  a  grass-gFeen  turf, 
At  his  heels  a  stone  ! 

"  White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow, 
Larded  all  with  sweet  flowers, 
Which  bewept  to  the  grave  did  go 
With  true-love  showers  !  " 

the  spell-bound  spectators  asked  each  other,  "Was 
ever  reason's  overthrow  so  vividly  counterfeited  ?  " 
That  her  madness  was  but  a  thrillingly  illustrated 
picture,  seemed  apparent  from  the  correctness  with 
which  she  delivered  the  text,  and  her  exit  made  at 
the  right  moment. 

Mattie  awaited  her  at  the  wing,  with  Ophelia's 
crown  of  straw ;  Fisk  stood  near,  his  arms  filled  with 
loose  flowers.  With  these  Ophelia  is  decked  before 
she  returns  to  the  stage  for  her  last  scene.  Stella 
laughed  as  the  fantastic  coronal  was  placed  on  her 


STELLA.  185 

head,  and  she  snatched  the  bright  flowers  from  Fisk, 
and  laid  them  in  the  ample  scarf  which  half  enveloped 
her  slender  form. 

"  0,  don't  — don't !  t*  pleaded  Mattie.  "  When  I 
hear  you  laugh  so,  it  makes  me  feel  as  though  it  were 
all  real ;  as  though  you  were,  for  all  the  world,  a 
poor,  mad  thing,  like  the  one  in  the  play  !  " 

"Mad!  Mad!  Yes  —  that's'  it !  "  cried  Stella, 
tossing  the  flowers  in  the  air,  and  catching  them 
again  in  her  scarf.  "  Who  is  n't  mad  here  ?  We  are 
all  mad  !  all  mad  !  a  jolly  mad  set !  "  And  she 
laughed  once  more,  as  she  fastened  the  reddest 
blossoms  in  her  floating  hair. 

* '  How  now  f  What  noise  is  that  f ' '  exclaimed  Laertes . 

Stella  recognized  her  cue,  gathered  up  the  scattered 
flowers,  and  glided  upon  the  stage. 

"  They  bore  him  barefaced  on  the  bier  ; 
Hey  no,  nonny,  hey  nonny  : 
And  in  his  grave  rained  many  a  tear  !  " 

she  sang.  The  audience  once  more  listened  entranced. 
Then  came  her  touching  distribution  of  her  floral 
burden : 

"  There 's  rosemary,  that 's  for  remembrance  ;  pray  you,  love, 
remember  ;  and  there  are  pansies,  that 's  for  thought. 

Laertes.  A  document  in  madness  ;  thoughts  and  remembrance 
fitted. 

Ophelia.  There  's  fennel  for  you,  and  columbines  ;  there 's  rue 
for  you  ;  and  here  's  some  for  me  ;  we  may  call  it  herb  of  grace  o' 
Sundays  —  you  may  wear  your  rue  with  a  difference.  There  's 
a  daisy  !  I  would  give  you  some  violets  ;  but  they  withered  all 
when  my  father  died ;  they  say  he  made  a  good  end  : 

*  For  bonny  sweet  Robin  is  all  my  joy.'  — 


186  STELLA. 

Laertes.  Thought  and  affliction,  passion,  hell  itself,  she  turns  to 
favor  and  to  prettiness." 

Then  she  broke  forth,  more  wildly  and  plaintively 
than  before,  singing, 

"  And  will  he  not  come  again? 
And  will  he  not  come  again  ? 
No,  no,  he  is  dead  ! 
Go  to  thy  death  bed  — 
He  never  will  come  again  ! 

"  His  beard  was  as  white  as  snow, 
All  flaxen  was  his  poll ; 
He  is  gone,  he  is  gone, 
And  we  may  cast  away  moan  ; 
Gramercy  on  his  soul !  " 

Kneeling  on  the  ground,  she  shaped  a  coffin  with 
her  long  scarf,  and  strewed  it  with  flowers,  as  she 
sang.     She  rose  up  repeating  the  words, 

"  Gramercy  on  his  soul ! 
And  of  all  Christian  souls  !     I  pray  Heaven, 
Heaven  be  with  you !  " 

They  are  the  last  sentences  Ophelia  speaks. 
Every  syllable  fell  from  her  lips  slowly,  solemnly ;  her 
arms  were  extended  as  though  for  a  world-wide  bene- 
diction. Ophelia  should  then  make  her  final  exit ;  but 
Stella  stood  immovable,  her  arms  outstretched,  her 
eyes  fixed. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  gently  took  her  hand  to  rouse  her ; 
she  uttered  a  cry  that  was  the  mingling  of  a  laugh 
and  shriek,  and  fell  upon  her  friend's  bosom. 

"  Gracious  heaven  1 "  whispered  the  actress,  "  she 
does  not  know  what  she  is  doing  !  Mr.  Swain,  carry 
her  away  ;  help  me  to  take  her  off  the  stage." 


STELLA.  18T 

Mr.  Swain,  who  enacted  Ophelia's  brother,  at- 
tempted to  raise  Stella  in  his  arms  ;  but  she  violently 
resisted  -—  she  would  allow  no  one  but  Mrs.  Fairfax 
to  touch  her.  The  latter,  with  some  difficulty,  bore 
her  from  the  stage. 

The  tragedy  proceeded  without  interval ;  the  de- 
thronement of  a  young  girPs  intellect  was  too  trivial 
a  circumstance,  in  theatrical  estimation,  to  interfere 
with  the  regular  movement  of  the  play  —  to  deprive 
the  public  of  their  purchased  amusement.  But  there 
were  those  present  who  never,  in  after-life,  forgot 
her  eloquent,  world-embracing  attitude,  her  loving 
yet  stony  countenance,  and  the  electrifying  tone  in 
which  she  said : 

"  Gramercy  on  his  soul  I 
And  of  all  Christian  souls  !    I  pray  Heaven, 
Heaven  be  with  you  !  " 

Edwin  Percy  sat  in  that  audience,  his  mind  con- 
vulsed with  distracting  doubts.  The  instant  Stella 
was  no  longer  in  sight,  he  hurried  to  the  stage-door, 
and  entreated  admission  of  the  theatrical  Cerberus. 
It  was  against  rules  to  enter.  Percy  pleaded, 
threatened,  offered  a  large  bribe,  but  the  door-keeper 
was  inexorable.  Disregard  of  orders,  in  Mr.  Belton's 
establishment,  was  forfeiture  of  situation. 

Meantime  Stella  was  conveyed  to  her  dressing- 
room  by  Mrs.  Fairfax  and  Mattie.  The  former  was 
forced  to  return  to  the  stage  in  a  few  moments,  to 
recount  the  hapless  Ophelia's  watery  end.  The  self- 
control  acquired  by  years  of  discipline  hardly  suf- 
ficed the  dismayed  actress  to  go  through  her  scene 
without  betraying  more  emotion  than  befitted  Ham- 


188  STELLA. 

let's  mother  at  the  untimely  death  of  the  maiden 
whom  she  thought  to  welcome  as  her  son's  bride. 

When  Mrs.  Fairfax  returned  to  Stella,  she  found 
her  talking  in  a  wild  strain  ;  the  horrors  of  the  night 
previous  were  reenacted  in  the  young  girl's  imagina- 
tion. 

"  Hark  !  Do  you  hear  that  heavy  crash  ?  "  she 
muttered.  "  See  !  his  brains  are  quite  dashed  out. 
Look,  how  the  blood  gushes  !  It  has  spouted  up  to 
Perdita's  bosom,  and  Floy's  hands  are  all  dabbled. 
Must  she  play  Juliet  after  that  ?   Was  it  she,  or  I  ?  " 

Then  she  sang, 

M  They  bore  him  barefaced  on  the  bier  !  " 

but  stopped  suddenly.  "  No,  they  won't  carry  him 
barefaced ;  it  would  be  too  horrible  a  sight.  Strew 
the  flowers  over  him  —  hide  him  !  Hide  his  mangled 
head  from  the  staring  crowd  !  "  And  she  tore  off  the 
flowers  that  were  fastened  about  her  dress,  and  flung 
them  about  with  frantic  gesture. 

It  was  not  possible  to  change  her  attire  ;  nor  would 
she  permit  the  crown  of  straw  to  be  removed,  nor 
her  loosened  tresses  to  be  gathered  and  bound. 

Mr.  Belton  consulted  with  Mrs.  Fairfax  and  the 
almost  broken-hearted  Mattie.  It  was  necessary 
that  the  young  girl  should  be  conveyed  to  her  home 
without  delay,  and  medical  attendance  summoned. 
Mr.  Belton  seized  an  opportunity  when  Stella  sank 
back  exhausted  and  powerless,  and  bore  her  down 
the  stairs.  Mrs.  Fairfax  longed  to  accompany  her 
home,  but  she  was  compelled  to  appear  on  the  stage 
in  the  fifth  act. 


STELLA.  189 

"  If  Mrs.  Rosenvelt  will  permit  me,  I  will  come  to 
you  as  soon  as  the  play  is  over,"  she  said  to  Mattie ; 
"  Stella  seems  to  recognize  me,  and  I  may  be  of 
assistance." 

As  Mr.  Belton  placed  his  unresisting  burden  in  the 
carriage,  Mr.  Percy,  who  stood  at  the  stage-door, 
grasped  Mattie's  arm.  u Merciful  powers!  What 
has  happened  ?    She  is  not  ill  ?    She  is  not  dying  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Mattie,  soothingly,  for  his  ter- 
rified manner  touched  "her  accessible  heart ;  "  but  she 
no  longer  knows  us  —  this  horrible  life  has  been  too 
much  for  her." 

"  Let  me  go  with  you  —  she  will  know  me.  Stella  ! 
Stella  !  "  he  murmured,  leaping  into  the  carriage. 

But  Stella  gave  no  sign  of  recognition,  though 
she  was  now  sitting  quite  erect  beside  Mr.  Belton. 
When  they  reached  her  residence  she  seemed  able 
to  walk.  Percy  had  alighted  from  the  carriage  first, 
and  received  her  as  she  descended.  She  took  his 
arm  mechanically  ;  preceded  by  Mattie,  and  followed 
by  Mr.  Belton,  they  entered  the  house. 

Mrs.  Rosenvelt  rose  in  surprise,  but  not  in  alarm. 
Mr.  Belton  introduced  himself.  She  saluted  the  gen- 
tlemen courteously,  then  turned  to  Stella : 

"You  have  come  home  in  your  Ophelia  dress  to 
show  it  to  me  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  gratified  air. 
"  How  very  picturesque  !  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you,  gentlemen,  for  accompanying  her !  " 

Mattie  hid  her  face  in  her  apron ;  Mr.  Belton  bent 
his  eyes  sorrowfully  on  the  ground ;  Mr.  Percy 
looked  the  very  incarnation  of  mute  despair.  Stella 
stood  vacantly  gazing  in  the  distance. 

"  Stella,  dear,  why  do  you   stand  there  ?    How 


190  STELLA. 

strangely  you  look !  Stella,  my  child,  why  don't 
you  answer  me  ?  Mattie,  what  ails  her  ?  What 
have  they  done  to  her  ?  " 

"Hush!  hush!"  whispered  the  young  girl,  and 
the  muscles,  a  moment  before  so  rigid,  now  relaxed. 
"  He  's  dead,  quite  dead  !  His  brain  crushed  in  ! 
Why  am  I  lying  alive  in  Juliet's  tomb,  while  he  is 
waiting  for  a  grave  ?  Here  's  one  ready  made  ;  lay 
him  here !  " 

Mrs.  Rosenvelt  turned  towards  the  perturbed  man- 
ager. "Is  it  her  part  she  is  rehearsing?  I  have 
heard  her  rehearse  often,  but  not  in  this  manner. 
Why  does  she  not  notice  any  one  ?  What  ails  her  ? 
She  's  not  —  not — 0  God,  not  mad?  Tell  me,  my 
child  is  not  mad  !  " 

"  Give  me  the  address  of  your  medical  attendant, 
madam,  that  I  may  go  for  him  myself.  Her  brain 
has  been  overtasked.  No  doubt  rest  and  a  physi- 
cian's care  will  restore  her." 

The  mother,  stupefied  by  the  sudden  shock,  was 
incapable  of  giving  the  desired  direction.  Fortu- 
nately, it  was  remembered  by  Mattie.  Mr.  Belton 
wrote  down  the  street  and  number,  and  departed. 

Mrs.  Rosenvelt  lavished  upon  her  daughter  the 
most  tender  epithets  ;  but  words  of  endearment  bore 
not  their  healing  sweetness  to  her  wandering  mind. 
Mr.  Percy  had  gently  placed  her  in  a  chair  ;  she  had 
removed  her  straw  garland,  and  was  tearing  it  into 
bits.     She  offered  him  a  fragment,  repeating : 

"  There's  rue  for  you,  and  here  is  some  for  me  !  " 

He  clasped  the  sad  token  to  his  breast,  and  gazed 
upon  her  as  though  his  tortured  soul  would  rush 


STELLA.  191 

through  his  eyes  ;  then  turned  to  the  afflicted  mother, 
and  asked,  "  Is  there  nothing,  madam,  I  can  do  ?  " 

"My  son  —  send  for  my  son  —  write  to  him  by 
to-night's  post !  " 

(These  incidents  occurred  before  the  telegraph 
was  in  operation.) 

Percy  almost  regretted  his  question.  To  comply 
with  Mrs.  Rosenvelt's  wish,  he  would  be  forced  to 
leave  Stella.  He  bent  over  her,  whispering  her 
name,  and  imploring  her  to  bestow  upon  him  one 
look  —  one  word. 

Mrs.  Eosenvelt  noticed  that  he  lingered,  and  said, 
"You  want  his  address?  '  Ernest  Rosenvelt,  New 
York/  will  reach  him.  Tell  him  —  prepare  him  for 
this  blow.     Do  not  lose  time  ;  write  at  once." 

Mr.  Percy  was  forced  to  take  his  leave. 

Mrs.  Rosenvelt  and  Mattie  were  kneeling  on  either 
side  of  Stella's  chair,  when  Mrs.  Fairfax  entered. 
At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  young  girl  looked  up 
and  stretched  out  her  hand. 

f-i  You  are  staying  with  me ;  you  are  so  good ! 
You  will  not  leave  me  in  this  dark  tomb  alone  ! 
Hold  fast  my  hand  —  don't  draw  it  away.  I  know 
the  cue,  and  will  loosen  it  at  the  right  moment. 
The  combat  is  not  over  yet  —  Paris  is  not  dead. 
Romeo  will  not  burst  open  the  doors  until  then." 

She  clung  eagerly  to  Mrs.  Fairfax,  who,  after 
many  attempts,  succeeded  in  luring  her  to  her 
mother's  chamber  before  the  physician  arrived. 

"  Brain  fever,  produced  by  injudicious  mental 
stimulus,"  pronounced  the  man  of  science,  after  ex- 
amining his  patient  attentively.  "The  most  abso- 
lute quiet  is  necessary  for  her  recovery." 


192  STELLA. 

But  neither  quiet  nor  medicine  seemed  likely  to 
effect  that  promised  restoration.  For  three  days 
she  lay  wildly  raving,  and  recognized  no  one.  Now 
she  imagined  herself  triumphing  on  the  stage,  floral 
showers  falling  around  her,  and  the  plaudits  of  a 
delighted  multitude  ringing  in  her  ears  ;  now  failing 
in  some  grand,  laborious  part,  overwhelmed  with 
shame  and  confusion ;  now  subjected  to  Miss  Do- 
ran's  merciless  persecutions  ;  now  witnessing  again 
the  appalling  death  of  the  captain  of  the  supernu- 
meraries. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  was  constantly  by  her  couch.  It  was 
marvellous  how  the  actress  could  discharge  her 
morning  and  evening  duties  at  the  theatre,  and  yet 
watch  beside  Stella,  night  after  night,  with  undimin- 
ished strength.  Mrs.  Fairfax  had  never  experienced 
the  pangs  and  joys  of  maternity,  but  her  heart 
adopted  this  young  girl  almost  from  the  moment 
when,  at  rehearsal,  her  arm  enfolded  that  trembling 
form. 

Mr.  Percy  had,  every  day,  many  brief  interviews 
with  Mattie.  The  shattering  of  Stella's  intellect 
had  razed  from  its  dream-laid  foundation,  and  dashed 
to  atoms,  his  mansion  built  of  many  hopes. 

Ernest,  apprised  of  his  sister's  perilous  illness, 
obtained  leave  of  absence  for  a  few  days,  and  ar- 
rived in  Boston  on  Sunday  morning.  His  presence 
wakened  no  harmonious  chord  in  Stella's  unstrung 
mind.  As  he  sat  by  her  couch,  in  tearless  anguish, 
he  could  not  help  saying  to  Mrs.  Fairfax  : 

"  I  foresaw  this  ;  I  dreaded  the  effect  of  this  tur- 
bulent existence  upon  her ;  but  she  would  not  heed 


STELLA.  193 

my  counsel.  God  grant  that  she  may  listen  to  it 
better  when  she  recovers." 

"  When  she  recovers  ! "  Mrs.  Fairfax  sadly  re- 
peated to  herself;  "  when?    Alas  !  alas  !  " 

The  next  evening,  towards  sunset,  —  about  the 
hour  that,  one  fortnight  before,  the  novice  had  been 
robed  in  her  Virginia  attire,  prepared  to  be  ushered 
upon  her  perilous  stage  life,  —  the  watchers  noticed 
a  decided  change  in  their  beloved  invalid.  She  slept 
calmly,  for  the  first  time  during  her  illness.  The 
mother  and  son  were  seated  near  the  head  of  the 
bed ;  Mrs.  Fairfax,  a  short  distance  from  them ; 
Mattie  stood  at  the  foot,  but  not  alone.  She  had 
hearkened  to  Perdita's  earnest  pleadings,  and  al- 
lowed the  sorrowing  girl  to  gaze  once  more  upon 
the  lovely  features  of  her  almost  worshipped  friend. 

Only  a  few  whispered  words  were  spoken,  but 
those  breathed  of  hope.  Stella  lay  as  white  and 
still  as  sculptured  marble.  The  arms,  that  had  been 
incessantly  tossed  about,  were  folded  on  her  breast ; 
the  features,  so  constantly  distorted,  had  settled  into 
a  holy  calm ;  the  burning  glow  on  her  cheek  had 
faded  out,  and  the  labored  breath  was  now  lightly 
drawn.  She  moved  feebly ;  then,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
opened  her  eyes.  The  glittering  light,  the  vacant 
expression,  the  wild  stare,  had  gone  from  them. 

"My  mother!," 

"  Thank  God !  thank  God ! M  murmured  Mrs. 
Kosenvelt,  sinking  upon  her  knees.  "She  knows 
me  !     She  will  recover  !  w 

"Ernest,  is  that  you?  How  came  you  here  ?  I 
was  rash ;  I  did  not  heed  you.  If  I  can  but  prove 
to  you  how  much  I  —  but  it's  too  late!     Who  is 


194  STELLA. 

that  by  you  ?  My  friend,  my  kind  friend  !  Kind  to 
every  one,  but  kindest  of  all  to  the  headstrong  nov- 
ice !  All  that  could  be  done  to  help  her  —  to  smooth 
the  rough  path — you  did  !  " 

Mattie  pressed  forward,  but  Perdita  shrank  behind 
the  curtains. 

"  My  own  faithful,  uncomplaining  Mattie,  how  I 
have  made  you  suffer  !  God  bless  you  !  Don't  for- 
get that  I  loved  you  always ;  you  were  so  patient, 
so  devoted  1    Brother,  take  care  of  my  good  Mattie  !  " 

A  low  sound  of  weeping  now  issued  from  one  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  the  curtains  shook. 

"Who  is  that?     Who  moves  the  curtains  ?     Is  it 

—  can  it  be t"  and  her  face  became  suddenly 

effulgent  with  a  hope  which  her  tongue  refused  to 
betray. 

At  those  words  Perdita  issued  from  her  conceal- 
ment, and  bathed  the  outstretched  hand  of  her  friend 
with  dewy  messengers  of  love  and  gratitude,  sent 
from  her  heart. 

"  What,  Perdita !  you  ?  It  was  not  you  of  whom 
I  was  thinking ;  and  yet  I  am  so  glad  you  are  here  ! 
Brother,  this  orphan  and  her  poor  brother  —  I  hoped, 
but  cannot  now  —  I  thought  to  help  them  —  you  will  ? 
And,  Mattie,  you  will  never  forsake  them  ?  My  mem- 
ory on  the  stage  —  let  it  be  embalmed  by  one,  this 
one  good  deed.  There  is  something  else  I  want  to 
say,  but  I  cannot  speak  it  —  some  one  else.  Lift  me 
up  ;  I  am  stifling  !  " 

The  terrified  Ernest  raised  and  supported  her. 
She  looked  imploringly  in  his  face,  and  struggled 
to  speak ;  but  her  lips  moved  without  producing  a 
sound.     Her  eyes  rested,  with  a  look  of  love  unut- 


STELLA.  195 

terable,  upon  every  countenance  in  turn  ;  fainter  and 
fainter  grew  her  breathing ;  more  and  more  glassy 
became  her  distended  orbs  ;  and  now  the  heavy  lids 
drooped  slowly  over  them.  Never  more  would  those 
eyes  be  dazzled  by  the  glare  of  stage-lights  ;  never 
more  would  that  stilled  heart  swell  or  sink  at  the 
world's  applause  or  blame.  The  meteor,  which 
flashed  its  resplendent  lustre  for  a  moment  athwart 
the  dramatic  horizon,  moved  in  a  heavenlier  sphere  ! 
Ernest  led  his  mother  from  the  bed  of  death  to 
Stella's  unoccupied  chamber.  A  volume  of  Shak 
speare  lay  open  on  the  table.  The  hand  now  life- 
less had  marked  those  passages  which  the  young 
girl  loved  best.  Ernest  pointed  out  the  book  to  his 
mother.  In  the  violence  of  her  grief  she  would 
have  pushed  it  aside,  as  though  it  had  some  con- 
scious instrumentality  in  her  sorrow.  But  her  son 
gently  prevented  the  action,  and  pointed  out  the 
unclosed  page,  which  bore  the  trace  of  Stella's  pen- 
cil. A  voice  from  the  unseen  world  seemed  whis- 
pering in  the  ears  of  the  mourners,  as,  through  their 
blinding  tears,  they  perused  the  inspired  lines  : 

"  Heaven  and  yourself 
Had  part  in  this  fair  maid  ;  now  Heaven  hath  all, 
And  all  the  better  is  it  for  the  maid. 
Your  part  in  her  you  could  not  keep  from  death  ; 
But  Heaven  keeps  his  part  in  eternal  life  ! 
The  most  you  sought  was  her  promotion, 
And  't  was  your  heaven  she  should  be  advanced  : 
And  weep  ye  now,  seeing  she  is  advanced 
Above  the  clouds,  as  high  as  heaven  itself? 
0,  in  this  love  you  love  your  child  so  ill, 
That  you  run  mad,  seeing  that  she  is  well !  "  * 

*  Romeo  and  Juliet. 


THE 


PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER 


The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door.  — Wordsworth. 


17 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door.  — Wordsworth. 


CHAPTER    I. 


Property-Room  of  a  Theatre.  —  Its  Contents.  —  The  Property 
Cradle  and  its  Occupant.  —  Robin  and  Susan. —  A  Prompter 's 
Trials.  —  History  of  the  "General  Utility."  —  The  Prompt- 
er's Courtship. — "Asking  in  Church." —  Wedding  of  the 
Hunchbacked  Prompter  and  the  "General  Utility. " — The 
Bride  at  Rehearsal.  —  Tina.  —  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth.  — 
DoVs  Baby.—  Tina's  Debut.— A  Touch  of  Nature.—  The 
Infantile  "Hit."  —  Susan's  Prayer  in  the  old  Property-Room. 

Reader,  have  you  ever  stood  in  the  "property- 
room  "  of  a  theatre  ?  That  mysterious  receptacle  of 
gilded  sceptres  and  tinsel  crowns,  of  stage  wealth, 
stage  honors,  and  stage  appliances,  for  the  use  of 
representative  heroes  and  heroines  ?  It  is  in  the 
property-room  of  a  London  theatre  that  our  story 
commences.  The  room  is  about  nine  feet  square. 
It  is  windowless,  and  might,  by  the  wntheatrical 
visitor,  be  called  a  closet ;  but  the  designation 
rudely  painted  over  the  door  forbids.  The  words 
•'  property-room "  stand  out  in  glaring  red  letters 


200   the  prompter's  daughter. 

and  beneath  "No  admission.' '  A  gas-branch  sheds 
its  bluish  light  on  a  heterogeneous  mass  of  objects, 
ranged  and  heaped  together  in  disorderly-seeming 
order.  Around  three  sides  of  the  room  run  a  set 
of  shelves,  nearly  reaching  to  the  ceiling.  On  the 
shelf  nearest  to  the  door  stands  a  small  chest,  with 
drawers ;  within  are  portraits  of  absent  lovers  and 
lost  children  j  lockets  to  be  exhibited  at  some  critical 
moment  in  the  play ;  a  golden-linked  chain,  with  a 
heart  attached, —  such  as  Kosalind  gives  to  Orlando, 
with  the  sweet  words, 

"  Gentleman,  wear  this  for  me, 
One  out  of  suits  with  fortune,  —  that  could  give  more, 
But  that  her  hand  lacks  means." 

A  rude  cross,  "  carved  by  no  craftsman's  hand," 
such  as  St.  Pierre  recognizes  on  the  neck  of  Mariana, 
and  thus  discovers  his  sister ;  the  snuff-box  which 
that  drawer  of  a  long  bow,  Claude  Melnotte,  declares 
Louis  the  Fourteenth  gave  to  his  great-great-grand- 
mother ;  and  the  diamond  ring  with  which  the  same 
veracious  individual  asserts  the  Doge  of  Venice  mar- 
ried the  Adriatic.  Watches  of  various  sizes,  and, 
apparently,  varying  value  ;  the  countryman's  turnip- 
shaped  silver  time-teller,  the  large  gold  watch  for 
the  robber's  booty,  the  glittering  bauble  of  the 
•  /  dashing  beau.  A  set  of  purses,  of  different  textures, 
—  the  velvet  purse  of  the  benevolent  lady,  filled 
with  golden  coin,  and  opening  easily  to  dispense 
charities;  the  dingy  leathern  purse  of  the  miser, 
only  unclosing  to  be  filled ;  the  honest-looking,  well- 
stuffed  purse  of  the  farmer ;  the  empty  silken  purse 
of   the    spendthrift.      Pocket-books,    swelling  with 


THE  PROMPTER^  DAUGHTER.     201 

bank-notes,  for  nabobs  and  rich  uncles.  Tossing 
among  these  sentiment-suggesting  objects  are  huge 
pieces  of  tobacco  for  hoosiers,  Yankees,  sailors  ;  fire- 
crackers for  "little  Pickle  ;"  handcuffs  for  detected 
villains,  &c.  &c. 

Upon  a  rack,  at  one  side,  hang  a  set  of  horse-pis- 
tols for  mounted  desperadoes  ;  several  sets  of  duel- 
ling-pistols for  insulted  individuals,  called  upon  to 
protect  their  honor ;  tomahawks  and  calumets  ; 
bowie-knives  for  the  lawless  ;  swords  of  all  ages  and 
countries  ;  daggers, —  some  too  sharp  for  stage  use, 
others  that  spring  back  harmlessly  into  their  handles ; 
bunches  of  keys  —  large,  ominous-looking  ones  —  for 
prison-doors  ;  small  clusters  to  dangle  at  the  waists 
of  notable  housekeepers.  One  gigantic  key  hangs 
by  itself;  it  is  the  one  with  which  the  Duke  locks  up 
the  fiery  Juliana,  informing  the  audience  that  there 
is  "much  virtue  in  a  lock  and  key,"  but  forgetting 
to  tell  them  that  the  true  "  padlock  "  is  "on  her 
mind."  A  little  further  on  is  suspended  an  antique 
lamp  of  grim  aspect  and  classic  shape,  which  does 
service  in  Juliet's  tomb,  dungeons,  and  all  subter- 
ranean and  sepulchral  places. 

On  the  shelves  lie  truncheons  ;  golden  sceptres  ; 
a  velvet  cushion,  with  a  crown ;  the  three  coffers 
from  which  Portia's  lover  must  make  his  choice  to 
win  a  wife ;  the  rustic  basket,  filled  with  berries 
(made  of  red  flannel),  which  Parthenia  bewitches  the 
rude  Ingomar  into  carrying ;  the  golden  goblet  which 
she  wreathes  with  flowers  while  humanizing  the  bar- 
barian with  her  innocent  prattle  (weaving  an  invisi- 
ble chain  as  she  twines  the  flowery  band) ;  baskets 
of  painted  fruits  and  mimic  haunches  of  venison, 


202    the  prompter's  daughter. 

such  as  adorn  the  table  of  the  Banished  Duke,  when 
Orlando  rushes  in  with  drawn  sword,  commanding 
them  to  "  forbear  and  eat  no  more  "  until  his  fam- 
ished companion  has  feasted ;  tempting  plum-cakes 
(concocted  of  papier  maclie)  ;  canvas-backed  ducks 
(manufactured  out  of  canvas) ;  bottles  of  different 
sizes,  labelled  "champagne/7  "brandy,"  "soda," 
"poison,"  but,  when  used,  harmlessly  filled  with 
treacle  and  water  ;  glasses  containing  ice-cream  (that 
is,  raw  cotton) ;  a  huge  punch-bowl,  innocent  of 
anything  stronger  than  sweetened  water  or  lemon- 
ade ;  by  its  side  stands  the  nut-shell  mug  which 
Juliana,  in  her  angry  mood,  offers  to  her  husband's 
guest.  In  seemingly  dangerous  proximity  you  may 
see  a  red-hot  poker  that  never  cools,  and  sets  of 
icicles  that  never  melt ;  the  bell  that  rings  a  deafen- 
ing peal  when  Romeo  kills  Tybalt,  and  all  Verona  is 
roused  by  the  jarring  of  the  rival  houses  ;  golden 
inkstands,  that  will  not  hold  ink  ;  a  couple  of  quills 
(obviously  uncut),  which  write  the  parting  words  of 
despairing  lovers,  sign  fatal  contracts,  add  disinher- 
iting codicils  to  rich  uncles'  wills.  Just  beyond  is 
Virginia's  "last  task,"  with  Icilius'  likeness  so 
faithfully  delineated  in  water-colors  that  the  portrait 
is  very  evident  to  her  father's  eyes,  though  the 
audience  usually  fail  to  detect  the  resemblance. 

In  one  corner  stand  brooms  for  "singing  cham- 
bermaids ;  "  crooks  for  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  ; 
spears  and  staffs  ;  walking-sticks  and  canes  of  all 
descriptions, —  from  the  gold-headed  cane  of  the 
opulent  old  father,  the  rough  stick  of  the  uncouth 
farmer,  whose  duty  it  is  in  all  plays  to  protect  in- 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     203 

jured  innocence,  the  whalebone  whip  of  the  dandy, 
to  the  well-worn  walking-crutch  of  Juliet's  nurse. 

But  in  that  opposite  corner  —  that  less  cumbered, 
well-shaded  nook  —  how  strangely  unsuited  to  the 
place  seem  the  objects  there !  A  cradle,  carefully 
curtained,  stands  alone, —  a  "property-cradle,"  it  is 
true  ;  but  the  tiny  form  within,  the  little  white  arm 
thrown  over  the  baby  headt  those  slightly-parted 
lips,  those  closed  eyes,  with  their  deep  fringes  lying 
on  the  soft  cheek, —  are  those  also  the  crafty  handi- 
work of  the  theatrical  property-man  ? 

A  noiseless  foot  passes  the  threshold  of  the  door ; 
a  young  girl,  attired  for  the  stage  as  an  English 
peasant,  approaches  the  cradle.  She  stoops  down 
gently,  and  gazes  upon  the  little  sleeping  face.  She 
almost  hushes  her  breath  to  stifle  back  an  involun- 
tary sigh ;  she  crouches  close  to  the  cradle,  with  her 
hands  clasped  on  her  knees,  and  watches  the  infant 
with  a  look  full  of  tender  sadness.  For  some  time 
she  sits  silent  and  motionless  ;  then  is  heard  the 
tinkling  of  a  bell,  the  sound  of  some  heavy  object 
unrolling,  and  a  fall  as  it  touches  the  ground ;  it  is 
the  descending  curtain  at  the  close  of  an  act.  There 
is  a  great  bustle  without,  and  the  running  to  and  fro 
of  rapid  feet;  they  are  ''setting  the  stage"  for 
another  act. 

"  Does  the  birdie  sleep  ?  "  asks  a  low  voice  at  the 
door. 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  Robin,"  is  the  whispered  answer. 

"  Better  wake  her  up  gently,  Sue ;  the  scene  is 
nearly  set." 

The  speaker  was  Robin  Truehart,  the  hunch- 
backed  prompter   of  the  theatre.     Like  all  hunch- 


204   the  prompter's  daughter. 

backs,  he  was  stunted  in  his  growth,  and  looked 
older  than  his  years.  Everybody  designated  him  as 
the  "  old  prompter,"  yet  he  had  hardly  passed  his 
prime.  His  fine,  expansive  brow  was  completely 
bald,  and  the  few  .remaining  locks  that  fringed  his 
head  were  touched  with  silver.  There  was  the  un- 
mistakable stamp  of  intellectuality  on  his  pallid 
countenance  ;  yet  its  most  marked  expression  was  of 
patience  —  patience  the  result  of  long  discipline  — 
patience  which  nothing  could  weary  out,  nothing 
disturb. 

And  well  may  the  lesson  of  patience  be  learned  in 
a  theatre  by  its  prompter  !  His  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  harassing,  temper-trying,  of  all  situations 
within  those  walls.  He  bears  the  whole  burden  of 
the  play  on  his  shoulders,  but  receives  none  of  the 
applause.  In  thought  he  acts  every  part  while 
seated  in  his  own  quiet  nook  ;  he  follows  every  line, 
groans  over  every  error,  gives  notice  for  every  "  call," 
and  has  a  host  of  responsible  duties  to  discharge,  of 
which  the  audience  are  in  ignorance.  It  is  chiefly 
upon  the  prompter  that  the  irritability  of  the  actors 
is  visited.  One  falls  into  a  rage  because  he  has  been 
prompted  when  he  did  not  need  "  the  word ; " 
another  gets  into  a  passion  because  he  was  not 
audibly  prompted  when  he  did  need  it ;  a  third 
charges  his  own  forgetfulness  to  the  prompter,  who, 
by  watching  him  too  closely,  caused  his  oblivious- 
ness. Do  what  he  may,  the  prompter  is  always 
accused  of  being  in  the  wrong.  In  this  severe 
school  he  either  becomes  highly  irascible,  or  he  is 
rendered  patient  in  the  extreme,  bearing  hard  words 
and  undeserved  rebukes  without  self-defence ;  accept- 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     205 

ing  them  as  unavoidable  evils  of  his  lot,  which  he  is 
bound  to  endure. 

And  who  is  the  fragile-looking  girl  of  eighteen 
seated  upon  the  ground  so  close  to  that  cradle,  with 
her  eyes  riveted  upon  that  baby  face,  and  almost 
keeping  time,  in  her  own  breathing,  with  the  infant's 
lightly-drawn  breath  ?  •  She  is  the  wife  of  that 
hunchbacked  prompter  ;  the  mother  of  that  sleeping 
child. 

Susan's  parents  and  grandparents  had  been  actors 
for  as  many  generations  as  they  could  trace  back. 
The  stage  had  descended  to  her  as  an  inheritance ;  she 
knew  no  other  vocation,  never  thought  of  adopting 
any  other.  Her  parents  had  held  responsible,  but  not 
high,  positions  in  the  theatre.  She  had  just  entered 
her  fourteenth  year,  when  an  epidemic,  then  raging  in 
London,  made  her  an  orphan.  There  were  none  near 
of  kin  to  protect  or  counsel  her ;  none  upon  whom 
she  had  a  claim,  save  that  of  charity.  She  was  re- 
tained in  the  theatre  in  the  capacity  designated  as 
"  general  utility."  It  is  the  duty  of  the  "utility  " 
to  speak  a  few  unimportant  lines,  to  deliver  notes 
and  messages  on  the  stage,  to  sing  in  choruses,  take 
part  in  ball-room  scenes  and  dances  where  numbers 
are v  required,  and  assist  in  filling  up  groups  for 
tableaux. 

Susan  was  tall ;  her  figure  had  that  willow-like 
slenderness  which  betokens  a  rapid  shooting  up  of 
the  form,  outstripping  the  strength.  Her  drooping 
shoulders  and  slight  stoop  seemed  to  indicate  the 
bending  humility  of  her  character.  Her  features 
were  too  delicately  fine  to  strike  those  who  gazed 
18 


206    the  prompter's  daughter. 

upon  her  through  the  barrier  of  foot-lights  as  beau- 
tiful. They  only  noted  the  profusion  of  auburn  hair, 
which  some  might  have  termed  red  (the  color  which 
the  old  masters  loved  to  paint),  the  soft  brown  eyes, 
and  exquisite  fairness  of  complexion ;  and  many 
wondered  whether  she  were  indebted  to  art  for  the 
latter,  until  the  flush  that  came  with  a  gesture  or  a 
word  gave  evidence  that  the  hues  were  by 

"  Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on.'* 

The  melodious  tones  of  her  voice  would  sometimes 
attract,  but  no  opportunity  was  ever  afforded  her  for 
the  exhibition  of  talent.  There  are  a  thousand 
agencies  at  work  in  every  theatre,  of  which  the  un- 
initiated know  nothing,  to  prevent  those  in  humble 
positions  from  rising.  The  might  of  great  genius 
will  force  its  way  upward  ;  but  lesser  talent,  unaided 
by  influence,  is  a  fountain  pent  within  a  stony  bar- 
rier, raised  by  jealous  hands.  The  fountain  may 
bubble  and  sparkle,  but,  unless  it  have  strength  to 
burst  its  bounds,  the  waters  remain  unacknowledged. 
So  was  it  with  Susan. 

There  were  those  in  the  theatre  who  felt  sure  that 
she  had  fine  dramatic  powers  ;  but  their  desire  to 
keep  her  back,  to  drive  her  into  the  shade,  and  pre- 
clude her  taking  a  higher  rank  in  her  profession,  be- 
came all  the  greater.  Her  natural  timidity  amounted 
to  diffidence,  and  prevented  the  lonely,  friendless 
girl  from  associating  freely  with  those  around  her. 
From  the  manager,  Mr.  Higgins,  a  money-loving, 
bold,  dissolute  man,  she  shrank  with  instinctive  re- 
pugnance.    He  was  struck  with  her  ideal  style  of 


DAUGHTER.  20T 

beauty ;  his  quick  eye  soon  discovered  she  had  hid- 
den abilities  ;  he  would  have  placed  her  in  a  position 
to  display  them ;  but  she  shunned  his  presence,  and 
met  his  insulting  manifestations  of  admiration  with 
that  species  of  womanly  dignity  which  awes  even  a 
libertine. 

She  was  but  sixteen  at  the  period  alluded  to,  but 
she  had  had  no  childhood  to  put  away;  she  knew 
none  of  childhood's  buoyant  joys, —  its  careless 
lightness  of  heart,  its  elastic  gambols  over  mead- 
ows and  lawns.  Her  memory  looked  back  upon  no 
time  unfilled  by  the  daily  routine  of  duties  at  the 
theatre.  Yet  she  could  scarcely  be  termed  unhappy. 
She  accepted  her  portion  humbly,  never  rebelling  at 
her  lot,  never  questioning  why  a  lot  so  lowly  should 
be  hers.  She  knew  no  unhallowed  desires ;  gave 
entertainment  to  no  evil  thoughts.  Through  tem- 
perament and  through  culture  her  mind  was  a  quick 
recipient  of  all  holy  influences.  From  the  lips  of  a 
virtuous  mother  she  had  learned  the  great  lesson  of 
submission  to  the  will  of  Providence  ;  learned  to  do 
the  work  which  her  hand  might  find  to  do,  and  to  do 
it  with  all  her  heart.  He  who  learns  this  lesson, 
does  this  work,  can  never  be  classed  among  the 
unhappy. 

After  the  death  of  her  parents,  the  hunchbacked 
prompter  was  her  chief  friend  in  the  theatre,  her  tacit 
protector.  It  was  he  who  conducted  her  each  night 
to  the  tumble  lodgings  which  her  parents  had  occu- 
pied at  their  death ;  he  who,  when  he  could  snatch  a 
moment's  time,  instructed  her  in  her  duties  ;  he  who 
whispered  a  few  comforting  words  when  she  was 
terrified  by  the  harsh  rebukes  of  the  stage-manager. 


208    the  prompter's  daughter. 

One  day  Susan  had  been  deeply  wounded  by  some 
coarse  expressions  uttered  by  Mr.  Higgins,  and 
alarmed  at  his  threat  of  dismissal  if  she  maintained 
her  habitual  reserve.  That  night,  as  Robin  was  con- 
ducting her  home,  he  could  feel  the  arm  that  was 
locked  in  his  tremble  violently.  He  kindly  inquired 
the  cause  of  her  agitation ;  the  poor  girl  burst  into 
tears.  In  a  voice  broken  with  sobs  she  confided  to 
her  sole  friend  the  insults  to  which  she  had  lately 
been  subjected.  Poor  Robin  !  this  was  a  critical  mo- 
ment in  his  life.  Day  by  day  he  had  watched  that 
human  flower  expanding  in  unsullied  purity  ;  he  had 
unconsciously  appropriated  it,  in  thought,  because  it 
seemed  as  if  no  other  had  been  sent  for  its  guardian- 
ship. His  deep  and  tender  affection  had  strength- 
ened in  secret.  He  had  never  spoken  to  the  young 
girl  of  love.  It  seemed  so  preposterous  for  him,  a 
cripple,  the  "old  hunchback,"  as  the  actors  called 
him,  to  offer  his  heart  to  a  being  so  young  and  so 
beautiful !  But  his  protection  would  be  invaluable, 
she  needed  it  so  much  ;  she  seemed  to  cling  to  him, 
to  come  to  him  as  her  sole  refuge, —  he  must  speak ! 

'?  Sue,"  he  said,  in  a  husky  tone.  "  Sue,  I  wish 
I  were  your  father,  or  your  brother !  I  would  take 
such  tender  care  of  you  ;  no  one  should  insult  you, 
or  make  you  weep  as  you  do  to-night.  Sue,  I  can't 
be  your  father  or  your  brother,  and  I  am  a  poor  crip- 
ple, though  not  dwarfed  or  crippled  in  heart ;  and 
there  is  something  I  might  be.  Don't  weep  so*  dear  ! 
don't  be  offended !  It  's  only  for  your  good  that  I 
offer  it ;  not  that  I  don't  love  you, —  I  do,  Sue  ;  I 
love  you  as  well  as  any  father  or  brother  could,  as 


DAUGHTER.  209 

well  as  one  who  was  blessed  with  that  other  name 
could.     Sue,  you  understand  me  ?  " 

Susan's  sobs  had  suddenly  abated,  but  she  did  not 
answer. 

"  I  have  not  grieved  you  ?  I  have  not  vexed 
you  ?  "  asked  Robin,  in  an  alarmed  tone. 

"0,  no,"  murmured  the  young  girl;  "you  are 
always  so  good  to  me ;  you  are  the  only  friend  I 
have ! " 

"Then,  Sue,  perhaps,  for  your  own  sake, —  for  I 
should  never  venture  to  ask  it  for  mine, —  perhaps 
you  would  give  me  the  right  to  that  dearer  name, 
which  I  hardly  dare  to  speak  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply. 

"Will  you,  Sue?  May  I  hope  for  it?"  urged 
Robin,  encouraged  by  her  silence,  and  the  entire 
cessation  of  her  sobs.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she 
held  her  breath,  she  had  grown  so  still ;  perhaps  the 
new  thought  half  stunned  her.  She  could  not  speak  ; 
but,  at  his  repeated  questions,  she  clung  more  closely 
to  the  arm  he  held.  He  felt  that  answer  was  enough, 
and,  returning  the  pressure,  thanked  and  blessed 
her,  and  told  her  that  he  would  be  the  truest  husband 
that  ever  woman  had,  though  he  was  but  a  poor  man 
and  a  cripple.  And  then  the  exquisite  words  of 
Miranda,  which  Susan  had  so  often  heard  delivered 
on  the  stage,  flashed  through  her  mind : 

"  My  affections 


Are,  then,  most  humble  ;  I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man." 

They  said  no  more  that  night,  but  parted  at  the 
street  door  of  Susan's  lodgings.     She  lay  down  with 


210     THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER. 

a  strange  sensation  at  her  heart ;  wonder  and  pleasure 
mingled  with  a  sense  of  pain  which  she  could  not 
comprehend.  Her  first  thought  in  the  morning  was, 
"Have  I  dreamt  all  this?"  Then  she  remembered 
Robin's  tone  and  manner,  and  began  to  say  to  her- 
self how  much  better  she  loved  him  than  she  imag- 
ined, the  night  previous,  would  be  possible.  The 
sense  of  pain  had  almost  passed  away  ;  she  had  some 
one  to  lean  upon,  some  one  to  look  up  to,  some  one 
to  render  happy,  some  one  to  fill  up  all  the  voids  of 
her  dreary  life ! 

There  was  a  rehearsal  at  ten  o'clock,  and,  strange 
to  say,  she  was  there  before  the  hour, —  a  rare  occur- 
rence for  any  one  connected  with  the  profession, 
except  the  prompter.  His  arduous  duties  commence 
in  advance  of  rehearsal.  Robin  was  sitting  at  his 
table,  arranging  the  "  calls  "  in  the  book  before  him. 
He  could  not  have  heard  her  light  step  when  she  en- 
tered the  half-dark  stage  ;  but  he  felt  her  presence, 
and  rose  to  meet  her,  and  conducted  her  to  his  seat 
with  a  tenderness  of  manner  which  he  had  never 
before  dared  to  use.  There  was  no  one  in  the  theatre 
at  that  hour,  except  the  carpenters,  at  work  at  the 
back  of  the  stage.  They  could  not  hear  Robin's 
petition  that  Susan  would  not  postpone  the  time  when 
he  might  call  her  his. 

"  It  is  Saturday  ;  the  bans  must  be.  published  on 
three  Sundays, —  why  not  to-morrow  ?  "  said  Robin, 
hurriedly.  "  Why  will  you  not  be  asked  in  church 
to-morrow,  and,  after  service  on  the  day  of  the  third 
asking,  let  me  call  you  wholly  mine  ?  The  sooner 
that  I  can  feel  I  am  your  protector,  the  better." 

Susan  started  and  colored,  but  recovered  herself 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     211 

instantly,  and  said,  "To-morrow,  then,  Robin. "  At 
the  same  moment  she  rose  hastily  from  the  prompt- 
er's chair,  for  the  actors  began  to  make  their  ap- 
pearance at  the  wings.  She  retired  to  a  quiet 
seat,  behind  the  scenes,  to  think  over  all  that  had 
passed  ;  and  remained  there,  unnoticed,  until  she  was 
summoned  to  rehearse  her  few  lines.  She  did  not 
see  Robin  again,  that  day,  except  in  his  prompter's 
seat,  apparently  engrossed  by  his  duties.  At  night 
he  took  her  home  as  usual,  but  they  were  both  too 
meditative  to  converse  much. 

Robin  had  been  in  the  habit  of  accompanying 
Susan  to  church  every  Sabbath ;  the  church  her 
parents  had  attended  ever  since  they  came  to  that 
neighborhood.  They  had  chosen  it,  at  first,  because 
it  was  the  nearest  to  their  residence.  Of  differences 
of  creeds  and  doctrines,  and  disputations  concern- 
ing the  exposition  of  Scripture,  they  thought  not. 
Susan's  mother  was  a  being  made  up  of  sweetness 
and  humility.  Like  the  Syrophenician  woman,  in 
Holy  Writ,  she  would  have  been  content  to  feed  from 
the  crumbs  that  fell  from  the  Lord's  table,  not  asking 
for  the  children's  meat.  But  at  that  church  this 
lowly-minded  woman  and  her  husband  had  received 
spiritual  food  in  such  rich  abundance,  that  their  souls 
were  constantly  strengthened  and  refreshed.  The 
love  of  good  gifted  them  with  an  instinctive  percep- 
tion of  truth ;  they  never  cavilled  or  questioned  ;  God 
gave,  and  they  received.  They  belonged  to  the  class 
of  the  simply  good,  who  accept  heavenly  truths  with 
delight,  but  cannot  argue  about  them. 

Robin  and  Susan  sat  side  by  side  in  church  that 
next  Sabbath  ;  and,  when,  with  the  usual  formality, 


212         the   prompter's   daughter. 

the  names  of  Robin  Truehart  and  Susan  Fairlie  were 
announced  by  the  minister  as  desirous  of  being 
united  in  wedlock,  few  were  aware  to  whom  these 
names  belonged.  Had  any  scanned  the  countenances 
of  those  who  sat  just  in  front  of  the  altar,  in  the  free 
seats,  the  seats  for  the  poor,  two  countenances  would 
have  betrayed  the  secret.  The  one  kindled  up  with 
a  flash  of  grateful  joy,  and  there  was  a  proud  swell- 
ing of  the  breast  upon  which  the  chin  was  resting, 
as  though  the  heart  beneath  were  growing  too  large 
for  its  fleshly  bonds.  The  other  face  was  turned  in 
maidenly  modesty  towards  the  ground,  the  dropped 
lids  hiding  the  eyes,  and  a  mantle  of  crimson  blushes 
veiling  the  cheek. 

That  week  they  saw  little  of  each  other,  except 
during  the  usual  walk  home  at  night,  and  neither 
was  sufficiently  self-possessed  to  allude  to  the  event 
which  filled  the  thoughts  of  both.  The  church  was 
not  so  distant  from  the  theatre  that  what  transpired 
in  the  former  was  not  quickly  known  in  .the  latter. 
Susan  was  bantered  upon  her  singular  choice.  Some 
sneeringly  wished  her  joy  of  her  young  and  handsome 
intended.  Some  openly  chided  her  for  throwing  her- 
self away.  She  had  but  one  answer  for  all  —  "I  am 
content." 

The  next  Sabbath,  when  Robin  Truehart  and 
Susan  Fairlie  were  again  "  asked  in  church,"  both 
manifested  a  decorous  composure.  For  an  instant 
Susan's  eyes  were  raised  to  Robin's  face,  as  if 
already  she  were  beginning  to  turn  confidingly  to 
him  ;  and  his  lips  moved  as  though  murmuring  words 
of  endearment  that  he  had  not  before  had  courage  to 


DAUGHTER.  213 

utter.  The  next  moment,  the  attention  of  both  was 
fixed  upon  the  minister. 

Another  week  passed  almost  as  the  former  had 
done,  except  that  Robin  made  arrangements  with 
Mr.  Gildersleaf,  the  property-man,  for  a  room  at  his 
house.  Mrs.  Gildersleaf  had  formerly  been  an  ac- 
tress, but  the  care  of  a  large  family  became  incom- 
patible with  her  professional  duties,  and  she  now 
received  a  few  lodgers,  principally  theatrical.  Her 
husband  remained  attached  to  the  theatre. 

On  Saturday  afternoon,  Robert  was  passing 
through  Covent  Garden  Market,  to  make,  out  of  his 
scanty  means,  a  few  purchases  for  the  morrow. 
Among  the  profusion  of  delicious  fruits  and  exquisite 
flowers,  he  noticed  a  bunch  of  newly-gathered  dai- 
sies. Their  fresh,  bright,  yet  humble  beauty,  seemed 
to  him  so  like  that  of  Susan,  that  he  purchased  them. 
That  night,  as  he  parted  from  her  at  the  door  of  her 
lodgings,  he  placed  the  flowers  in  her  hand,  and  said, 
"  Will,  you  wear  them  to-morrow,  Susan  ?  They  are 
so  like  yourself! " 

When  Robin  came  for  her  on  the  bright  Sunday 
morning  of  that  morrow, — came  for  his  bride, — he 
found  her  attired  in  a  simple  dress  of  virgin  white, 
and  the  bunch  of  daisies  blooming  on  her  bosom. 
The  "  eyes  of  day/7  they  are  poetically  called  ;  and 
they  seemed  to  look  at  him  from  their  pure  resting- 
place,  a  cluster  of  eyes  full  of  promise  and  love. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gildersleaf  accompanied  Robin  and 
Susan  to  church.  The  bans  were  published  for 
the  third  time  ;  service  was  over ;  the  congregation 
dispersed  ;  the  minister  came  forward ;  Robin  and 
Susan  rose  and  approached  the  altar.     There  was  an 


214        the  prompter's   daughte. 

expression  of  surprise  on  the  face  of  the  holy  man, 
as  the  hunchback  of  half  a  century  (for  such  he 
seemed  to  the  casual  observer,  though  he  was,  in 
reality,  much  younger)  presented  himself  as  the 
bridegroom  of  the  girl  of  sixteen.  Yet,  illy-matched 
as  these  twain,  at  the  first  glance,  appeared,  the 
bearing  of  both  was  so  indicative  of  serene  compos- 
ure and  high  purpose,  that,  as  the  clergyman  pro- 
ceeded with  the  ceremony,  he  thought  he  had  never 
performed  it  before  more  intent  and  devout  listeners, 
—  never  himself  delivered  the  words  more  impress- 
ively. The  blessing  was  given,  and,  for  the  first 
time,  Robin  pressed  his  young  bride  to  his  breast, 
and  imprinted  upon  her  chaste  lips  his  first  kiss. 

They  spent  that  afternoon  sitting  beneath  the 
majestic  trees,  or  wandering  through  the  delightful 
walks  of  Kensington  Garden,  conversing  with  each 
other  as  they  had  never  conversed  before,  commun- 
ing as  neither  had  ever  communed  with  any  human 
being.  Susan  often  looked  back  on  that  day  as  the 
first  in  which  the  morning  star  of  happiness  had 
dawned  through  the  severing  clouds  that  enveloped 
her  life. 

On  the  morrow  it  was  with  her  arm  in  her  hus- 
band's that  the  youthful  bride  walked  to  rehearsal. 
As  they  entered  upon  the  stage,  Robin  led  her  to 
Mr.  Higgins,  who  stood  talking  to  one  of  the  car- 
penters, and  said,  "  Allow  me  to  present  to  you  Mrs. 
Truehart,  my  wife." 

"  Your  wife  ?  ;;  exclaimed  the  discomfited  mana- 
ger. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  we  were  married  yesterday  morning." 

Robin  spoke  these  words  in  a  tone  so  full  of  manly 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     215 

pride,  and  his  attitude  was  marked  by  such  simple 
dignity,  that  the  contemptuous  sneer  died  away 
upon  the  manager's  lips,  and  he  exchanged  it  for  a 
less  scornful  "  I  wish  ye  joy  !  n 

Mr.  Tuttle,  the  stage-manager,  echoed  the  words 
of  his  superior.  It  was  his  wont  to  follow  in  the 
wake  of  the  latter,  and  to  take  from  him  the  cue 
which  governed  all  his  actions. 

Some  of  the  company  tittered,  and  some  congratu- 
lated Susan,  who  stood  by,  pale  and  trembling.  It 
was  a  trying  day  for  her  ;  a  long,  painful  rehearsal, 
and  no  chance  of  a  word  spoken  to  Robin.  She  con- 
cealed herself,  as  often  as  she  could  escape  notice, 
behind  the  scenes  ;  and  when  rehearsal  was  over, 
and  Robin  gathered  up  his  books,  and  sought  her  out 
to  conduct  her  again  to  her  new  home,  she  could  no 
longer  restrain  her  tears  ;  —  tears  of  joy,  which  fell 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  poor  prompter,  as  he  wound 
his  long,  misshapen  arms  around  the  fragile  form 
which  he  had  henceforth  the  privilege  of  guarding. 

They  had  been  married  two  years  at  the  period  of 
which  we  now  write,  and  Susan  had  known  a  mother's 
"  aching  joys ,"  and  experienced  the  truth  of  the  poet's 
Drophecy, 


a  child's  kiss, 


Set  on  thy  sighiog  lips,  shall  make  thee  glad." 

And  Robin's  toilsome  existence  within  the  walls  of 
that  gloomy  theatre  had  suddenly  been  flooded  with 
sunshine,  —  sunshine  that  ever  played  around  the 
forms  of  his  wife  and  child. 

Robin  still  stood  at  the  door  of  the  property-room, 


216    the  prompter's  daughter. 

and  Sue  still  knelt  beside  the  slumbering  child,  for- 
getful of  the  time  and  place. 

"  We  want  the  cradle,  Mrs.  Truehart,"  said 
Gildersleaf,  entering  hastily.  "Scene  just  set  — 
little  one  must  be  taken  up." 

"  Then  I  must  wake  you,  darling !  "  sighed  Susan  ; 
and,  with  the  timid  carefulness  which  very  young 
mothers  use  in  touching  the  first  living  treasure  in- 
trusted to  their  keeping,  she  lifted  the  baby  out  of 
the  cradle.  The  little  features  were  drawn  togethei 
as  though  the  child  were  about  to  utter  a  cry  ;  but 
the  blue  eyes  opened  on  the  mother's  countenance, 
and  the  tiny  puckered  mouth  relaxed  into  one  of 
those  shooting  smiles  which  Wordsworth  calls 

"  Feelers  of  love,  put  forth  as  to  explore 
The  untried  world." 

The  child  was  twelve  months  old,  but  remarkably 
diminutive,  and  its  complexion  had  a  whitely  waxen 
hue.  A  blossom  nurtured  in  the  dark,  that  scarcely 
knew  the  sunlight  and  the  fresh  breezes  of  heaven, 
no  wonder  that  it  was  colorless  and  feeble !  The 
parents  were  too  poor  to  pay  an  attendant.  In  their 
necessary  absence,  the  infant  was  left  in  charge  of 
the  kind-hearted  Mrs.  Gildersleaf,  but  at  her  busy 
hands  could  receive  but  little  attention.  Often,  of 
a  bright  morning,  the  young  mother  would  awaken 
from  her  slumbers  at  dawn,  and,  hastily  dressing  her- 
self and  her  baby,  she  carried  the  child  to  St.  James' 
Park,  and  walked  beneath  the  trees,  singing  in  a  low 
voice  to  her  little  one,  and  pondering  upon  her  new 
blessings.  But,  though  she  rose  with  the  sun,  the 
walk  was  necessarily  short.     She  had  to  return  to 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     217 

prepare  breakfast,  then  other  duties  must  be  hurried- 
ly performed,  and  ten  o'clock  must  find  her  at  the 
theatre,  ready  for  rehearsal. 

Kobin  could  seldom  accompany  her  in  her  morning 
ramble,  for  he  had  undertaken  the  duties  of  assistant 
copyist,  as  well  as  prompter.  The  copying  out  of 
"parts"  occupied  almost  all  his  leisure  moments ; 
but  he  received  an  extra  remuneration — he  could  add 
to  the  comforts  of  his  wife  and  child.  He  plodded 
through  the  additional  labor  cheerfully.  His  salary 
was  but  thirty  shillings  per  week.  Susan  received 
one  pound,  out  of  which  she  had  the  larger  portion 
of  her  theatrical  costumes  to  furnish  ;  thus  her  salary 
was  diminished  to  a  mere  pittance.  To-night  the  in- 
fant of  twelve  months  was  to  make  its  first  appear- 
ance on  the  stage  —  was  to  commence  earning  its 
livelihood  ! 

The  play  was  a  dramatized  version  of  Dickens' 
11  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  ;  "  an  infant  was  needed  for 
Dot's  baby.  The  charge  of  supplying  children  for 
the  stage  falls  to  the  property-man.  The  children, 
of  course,  receive  a  trifling  compensation.  Mr.  Gil- 
dersleaf  proposed  to  Sue  and  her  husband  to  allow 
their  child  to  commence  a  career  which  was  inevi- 
table. Both  parents  hesitated  at  first ;  but  necessity, 
stronger  than  inclination,  forced  them  to  consent. 
Tina  was  carried  to  the  theatre  to  make  her  d^but. 

The  stage  represented  Dot's  apartment,  the  kettle 
singing  on  the  fire,  and  Dot  seated  near  the  cradle 
where  slumbered  her  infant.  A  cold  shiver  ran 
through  poor  Susan's  frame  as  she  walked  upon  the 
stage  and  laid  her  smiling  nursling  in  the  cradle.     It 


DAUGHTER. 

seemed  the  commencement  of  life's  hard  struggles 
for  the  child. 

At  Mr.  Tuttle's  authoritative  "  Clear  the  stage,  ladies 
and  gentlemen !  "  Robin  took  Susan's  hand,  and  with 
some  difficulty  led  her  away.  She  stationed  herself 
in  the  little  nook  behind  his  prompter-seat.  He  rang 
the  bell  which  gave  warning  to  the  carpenters  above, 
and  slowly  the  curtain  rose.  Sue  could  see  her  child 
lying  in  the  cradle  which  Dot  was  rocking.  Its  large 
eyes  were  wide  open.  It  had  no  cradle  at  home ;  the 
rocking  was  something  new  and  pleasant,  and  the 
infant's  face  beamed  with  delight.  Presently  Dot 
took  up  the  child  ;  she  did  not  handle  it  dexterously 
or  carefully,  for  the  young  girl  who  played  the  part 
was  not  a  mother.  Susan  started  forward,  and,  had 
not  Robin  stayed  her  in  time,  the  probability  is  she 
would  have  rushed  upon  the  stage. 

The  child,  attracted  by  the  bright  foot-lights, 
stretched  out  its  little  arms  towards  them,  and  laughed. 
A  touch  of  perfect  nature,  however  simple,  will  elec- 
trify a  whole  audience.  The  infantile  action  drew 
down  a  round  of  applause,  as  though  the  child  had 
well  performed  something  which  it  had  been  taught. 
Tina  saw  the  clapping  hands,  and  sportively  imitated 
the  action.  Then  the  applause,  mingled  with  laughter, 
grew  louder  and  louder,  and  round  followed  round. 
The  unconscious  child  had  made  a  "■  hit."  How  Su- 
san's heart  beat !  She  crept  close  to  Robin,  and 
whispered,  "  Look  at  her !  look  at  her,  Robin,  dear  !  n 
"  God  bless  her  !  "  said  the  hunchback,  fervently ; 
"  I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  she  will  smile  just  so 
on  all  the  hardships  that  come  to  those  who  must 
labor  under  this  roof,  and  that  they  will  all  be  light 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     219 

to  her !  But  don't  talk  to  me,  Sue,  dear ;  it 's  hard 
for  me  to  keep  my  mind  on  the  book.  Somebody 
will  be  wanting  the  word,  for  they  are  all  loose  enough 
in  their  parts  4o-night." 

No  further  conversation  passed  between  Robin  and 
Susan.  He  seemed  absorbed  in  his  book ;  and  she 
stood  by  his  side,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  child  in 
Dot's  arms.  Various  characters  in  the  play  took 
Tina.  Still  she  chuckled  and  laughed,  and  turned  to 
the  bright  foot-lights  with  outstretched  hands,  as 
though  she  would  seize  them. 

At  last  the  scene  ended,  and  with  one  bound  Sue 
was  on  the  stage,  and  caught  up  the  infant  and  cov- 
ered it  with  kisses,  as  though  it  had  passed  through 
some  great  peril.  She  carried  it  to  the  old,  crowded 
property-room,  and  then,  when  no  mortal  eyes  were 
gazing  upon  her,  she  sank  down  upon  her  knees, 
with  the  baby  clasped  close  to  her  breast,  and  prayed 
God  to  guard  this  little  one  from  all  harm  —  to  let 
her  be  a  lamb  in  the  Lord's  fold,  to  "  crown  her  with 
tender  mercies  and  with  loving  kindnes8.,,  Involun- 
tarily she  repeated  the  baptismal  blessing  which  the 
minister  had  uttered  over  the  infant  on  the  last  Sab- 
bath :  "  The  Lord  bless  thee,  and  keep  thee ;  the 
Lord  make  his  face  to  shine  upon  thee,  and  be  gra- 
cious to  thee  !  the  Lord  lift  up  his  countenance  upon 
thee,  and  give  thee  peace  !  " 

So  ended  Tina's  first  night  on  the  stage. 


CHAPTER    II. 

Time  and  his  Wonderful   Works.  —  The  Seasons  Dramatically 
Represented.  —  Time  and  his  Symbols.  —  Rough  Treatment  of 

the  Infant. Maternal  Fears.  —  Melting  of  a   Stern  Heart. 

—  Tina  in  Fairy  Pageants.  —  Evenings  at  Home.  —  Rehear- 
sal of  Pizarro.  —  Tina  as  Cora's  Child.  —  Mr.  Upton.  —  In- 
cident  at  Rehearsal.  —  Comparative  Value  of  a  Child's  Arm 
and  a  Tragedian's  Poi?it,  in  the  Estimation  of  Mr.  Upton.— 
Interference  of  Mr.  Higgins.  —  Subserviency  of  Mr.  Tuttle, 
the  Stage-Manager. —  Virtue  of  a  Leathern  Girdle. —  Tina 
and  a  Stray  Sunbeam.  —  The  Sphere  of  Childhood.  —  Its  Ef 
feet  in  the  Theatre. —  Tina  and  her  Father.  — Gold  and  Silver 
Rain.  —  Tfie  Temptation.  —  Performance  of  Pizarro. 

The  "  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  "  was  repeated  a  num 
ber  of  nights,  and  Tina  always  appeared  as  Dot's 
baby,  always  arrested  the  attention  of  the  audience 
A  grand  spectacle  was  in  preparation,  entitled  "  Time 
and  his  Wonderful  Works."  The  wonders  which 
Time  effects  by  gradual  steps  were  exhibited  as  tak- 
ing place  instantaneously,  through  a  succession  of 
marvellous  transformations  —  well-executed  stage 
delusions.  The  sower  strewed  seed  upon  the  bare 
earth  ;  Time  passed  over  the  furrows  with  his  iron- 
shod  feet,  and,  lo  !  the  ground  was  decked  with  ver- 
dure and  bloom,  and  cities  suddenly  sprang  up 
where  fields  of  corn  waved  a  moment  before.  The 
young  lover  wooing  his  coy  nymph  in  a  bower  of 
roses  was  breathed  upon  by  Time  —  the  bower  van- 


ished  ;  in  its  place  appeared  an  old-fashioned  fireside, 
and  the  enamored  pair  were  metamorphosed  into  the 
antiquated  Darby  and  Joan  shivering  in  the  chimney- 
corner.  The  seasons  were  also  represented  gliding, 
with  rapid  transitions,  one  into  the  other.  Through 
very  elaborate  scenic  effects,  Spring  was  so  minutely 
depicted,  that  the  spectators  almost  fancied  they  in- 
naled  the  breath  of  flowers,  and  hearkened  to  a 
chorus  of  birds.  In  reality,  a  fine  imitation  of  their 
tuneful  throats,  through  the  medium  of  musical 
whistles. 

A  golden-haired  child,  just  dawning  into  maiden- 
hood, crowned  with  swelling  buds,  bedecked  with 
young  leaves  and  fruit-tree  blossoms,  presided  over 
the  year's  first  holiday.  Time  flitted  across  the 
scene  ;  the  flowers  expanded  into  perfect  bloom,  the 
trees  were  covered  with  foliage,  birds  twittered  on  the 
boughs,  butterflies  flew  about  in  the  air,  the  roseate 
light  took  a  warmer,  more  gairish  hue  ;  the  maiden 
in  her  spring  time  disappeared,  —  a  woman  of  oriental 
beauty,  in  the  full  lustre  of  her  charms,  reposed  upon 
a  bank  luxurious  with  flowers.  Garlands  floated 
from  her  shoulders  ;  roses  were  scattered  amidst  her 
unbound  locks,  and  dropped  their  leaves  to  cushion 
her  feet.  Time  glided  by  ;  the  trees  were  hung  with 
fruit ;  the  leaves  exchanged  their  emerald  green  for 
crimson  and  yellow  tints  ;  the  gathered  harvest  shone 
in  the  distance,  and  beyond  appeared  a  vineyard 
laden  with  amber  and  purple  grapes.  The  recumbent 
Summer  goddess  was  gone,  and  a  majestic-looking 
being,  of  mellower,  statelier  beauty,  stood  in  her 
place.  The  masses  of  her  chestnut  hair  glittered 
with  bright-hued  fruit  interwoven  with  the  long  pen- 
19 


222   the  prompter's  daughter. 

dent  tendrils  of  the  vine,  shooting  downward  like  a 
veil.  Her  waist  was  girdled  with  autumnal  leaves  ; 
in  her  hand  she  carried  a  basket  filled  with  the  most 
delicious  produce  of  the  vines  and  trees.  Time 
passes  once  more  —  the  leaves  fall ;  the  bare  trees 
sparkle  with  icicles  ;  the  ground  is  suddenly  sheeted 
over  with  snow  ;  mountains  gleaming  in  the  perspec- 
tive are  coroneted  with  snowy  wreaths  ;  the  regal- 
looking  queen  of  Autumn  is  displaced  by  one  of  even 
more  imperial  beauty.  Her  severely  classic  features 
are  colorless,  passionless  ;  a  diadem  of  icicles  sur- 
mounts her  black,  braided  hair  ;  her  vesture  shines 
as  with  sleet ;  the  evergreens  she  holds  in  her  hands 
are  covered  with  ice  ;  the  red  berries  of  the  holly 
and  the  pearly  mistletoe  peep  through  the  frosty  cov- 
ering. Those  who  look  upon  her  can  hardly  repress 
a  transient  shiver. 

Time  carried  a  scythe  in  his  right  hand  ;  an  hour- 
glass hung  at  his  girdle  ;  his  wings  were  large,  and 
shaped  like  those  of  a  bat ;  his  white  beard  flowed 
to  his  waist ;  his  blanched  locks  fell  on  his  shoulders. 
His  left  arm  enfolded  an  infant.  A  waxen  doll  had 
generally  been  used  on  similar  occasions,  but  Tina's 
appearance  as  Dot's  baby,  and  the  attraction  which 
the  audience  manifested  towards  her,  induced  Mr. 
Tuttle  to  request  that  the  child  would  supplant 
the  usual  waxen  representative.  Robin  and  Susan 
had  no  alternative.  It  was  a  bitter  winter  for  them 
■ —  a  winter  full  of  struggles,  and  hard  upon  all  the 
poor ;  the  pittance  that  the  child  earned  helped  to 
supply  its  absolute  wants  —  fuel,  clothing,  medicine, 
nutritious  food. 

Susan's  maternal  heart  ached  as  she  removed  little 


Tina's  woollen  wrappings,  that  a  picturesque  but 
very  airy  garment  might  take  their  place.  ,  The  actor 
who  personated  Time  was  an  uncouth,  untender 
bachelor.  He  received  the  child  from  the  arms  of 
its  mother  as  though  it  had  been  some  inanimate 
piece  of  theatrical  "  property/ '  and  held  it  in  the 
requisite  position  with  a  rough  grasp.  When  he 
stalked  upon  the  stage,  he  waved  his  scythe  care- 
lessly, and,  as  it  glittered  in  the  bright  light,  Susan 
trembled  as  though  she  feared  that  it  would  fall  and 
crop  her  opening  flower.  The  apparent  danger  made 
her  forget  that  the  scythe  was  only  a  harmless  bit  of 
pasteboard,  and  the  "  flash  of  steel "  merely  pro- 
ceeded from  the  innocent  covering  of  silver  paper. 

Little  Tina  seemed  instinctively  to  become  accus- 
tomed to  the  kind  of  life  which  she  was  destined  to 
lead.  She  lay  contentedly  in  the  arms  of  Old  Time, 
and  even  swept  back  from  her  cheek  his  white  beard, 
and  wound  her  fingers  in  his  floating  locks. 

Susan  met  Time  at  his  first  exit,  exclaiming, 

"0,  Mr.  Crowfoot !  I  am  so  fearful  you  hold  the 
child  too  tightly  !    She  is  very  delicate  ;  pray  do  —  " 

"  Get  out  of  the  way,  my  good  woman  !  The  child 
is  doing  well  enough  ;  it  's  not  crying.  Don't  bother 
me,  or  I  shall  forget  the  cues,  and  then  we  shall  have 
Tuttle  forfeiting  us  both.  Tuttle  is  great  on  forfeits 
—  they  help  old  Higgins'  treasury.  Stand  back,  will 
you  ?  and  leave  the  child  alone  !  w 

She  dared  not  address  him  again,  but  while  Mr. 
Crowfoot  was  looking  over  his  part  she  stealthily 
clasped  Tina's  hand.  The  cue  was  spoken  more 
suddenly  than  the  actor  expected ;  he  thrust  his 
book  in  his  bosom,  and,  not  having  noticed  Susan's 


224        the    prompter's    daughter. 

fond  action,  rushed  on  the  stage  so  abruptly  that 
Tina  was  almost  jerked  out  of  his  arms.  The  young 
mother  was  more  cautious  after  this  ;  but  she  took 
her  post  at  every  wing  where  Time  was  forced 
to  make  his  exit.  She  had  asked  Robin  to  tell  her 
all  the  cues,  and  she  now  ventured  to  throw  a  warm 
shawl  over  the  child's  light  drapery,  taking  care  to 
remove  the  needful  protection  the  instant  the  cue 
was  given. 

The  last  marvellous  transformation  was  over. 
Time  made  his  final  exit,  dropped  his  scythe,  half- 
tossed  the  child  into  its  mother's  longing  arms,  and 
unbuckled  his  heavy  wings,  seemingly  as  glad  to 
get  rid  of  his  animate  as  his  inanimate  embleniatic 
accessories. 

The  spectacle  found  favor  with  the  public,  and  was 
repeated  some  thirty  nights.  Every  night  Tina  lay 
nestling  in  the  rude  bosom  of  Time.  Perhaps  she 
melted  the  stern  heart  beneath  by  the  soft  pressure 
of  her  innocent  form ;  for  gradually  the  actor  grew 
more  tender  towards  her,  touched  her  more  gently, 
and  became  more  respectful  to  the  mother.  One 
night,  when  Susan  placed  her  as  usual  in  his  arms, 
the  infant  looked  up  so  confidingly  in  his  face  that 
he  involuntarily  kissed  the  smiling  mouth ;  but, 
ashamed  of  the  action,  he  laughed,  with  a  half- 
scowl,  saying  that  he  hated  the  "  little  imps."  He 
even  made  some  insolent  speech  to  Susan  about 
kissing  the  pretty  mother  through  the  child.  But 
Susan  well  knew  that  the  child's  angelic  look  had 
won  the  kiss ;  she  comprehended  in  what  manner 
the  hard-hearted  actor  was  softened  better  than  he 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     225 

understood  himself,  and  paid  no  heed  to  his  auda- 
cious words. 

Shortly  after  the  spectacle  of  Time  was  withdrawn, 
a  succession  of  fairy  pageants  was  produced,  and 
Tina  was  constantly  in  requisition.  She  could  now 
walk,  and  had  commenced  to  prattle  intelligibly. 
Sometimes  the  audience  beheld  her  curled  up  in  a 
mammoth  rose.  At  the  sound  of  music  the  flower 
unfolded,  and  the  child  sprang  out,  with  butterfly 
wings  and  a  silver  wand,  the  fairy  of  the  flower ! 
Sometimes  she  represented  the  infant  that  Titania 
stole  from  its  earthly  mother ;  sometimes  she  was  a 
Cupid,  speeding  shafts  in  all  directions ;  sometimes 
a  hobgoblin. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  season,  burlesques  and 
fairy  pieces  gave  place  to  legitimate  dramas,  trage- 
dies, melodramas,  comedies.  Then  Tina  had  rest, 
and  even  her  rejoicing  mother  was  now  and  then 
exempt  from  theatrical  toil,  and  could  spend  the 
evening  at  home,  alone  with  the  child.  Sometimes 
she  was  lured  into  Mrs.  Gildersleaf 's  cosey  sitting- 
room.  With  Tina  on  her  knee,  and  her  work  in  her 
hands,  she  alternately  chatted  with  her  kind  land- 
lady, instructed  the  child,  or  sang  snatches  of  opera 
melodies,  in  which  Tina  instinctively  joined  ;  but 
never  did  the  busy  fingers  cease  their  employment. 
These  were  evenings  of  calm  happiness,  which  had 
but  one  auxiliary  wanting  for  their  completeness  — 
Robin's  presence.  He,  of  course,  was  in  the  theatre, 
at  his  nightly  post,  long  before  the  curtain  rose,  and 
forced  to  remain  until  it  descended  for  the  last  time. 

One  night  he  brought  Susan  the  information  that 
Mr.  Upton,  who  was  then  starring  in  a  number  of 


226        the    prompter's   daughter 

tragically  terrible  parts,  would  enact  Rolla  on  the 
ensuing  evening,  and  that  Tina  was  cast  as  Cora's 
child.  This  was  the  first  regular  drama  in  which 
Tina  had  appeared.  Susan  herself  was  to  personate 
one  of  the  priestesses. 

Susan  had  never  seen  the  play.  At  rehearsal, 
instead  of  remaining  in  the  green-room  until  sum- 
moned by  the  call-boy,  according  to  the  usual  cus- 
tom of  actors,  she  carried  a  small  bench  to  one  of 
the  wings,  and  sat  down  to  watch  the  action  of  the 
scene. 

When  Tina  first  appears,  —  or  rather  Cora's  child, 
—  Cora  is  seated  on  a  mossy  bank,  playing  with  the 
child  at  her  knee  ;  Alonzo  (the  father)  is  leaning 
over  them  with  delight.  The  following  dialogue  is 
delivered : 

"Cora.  Now,  confess,  does  he  resemble  thee,  or  not? 

Alonzo.  Indeed,  he  is  liker  thee  —  thy  rosy  softness,  thy  smil- 
ing gentleness. 

Cora.  But  his  auburn  hair,  the  color  of  his  eyes,  Alonzo  —  0, 
my  lord's  image  and  my  heart's  adored  !  {Pressing  the  child  to 
her  bosom.) 

Al.  The  little  darling  urchin  robs  me,  I  doubt,  of  some  por- 
tion of  thy  love,  my  Cora.  At  least,  he  shares  caresses  which  till 
his  birth  were  only  mine. 

Cora.  0  no,  Alonzo  !  A  mother's  love  for  her  sweet  babe  is 
not  a  stealth  from  the  dear  father's  store  ;  it  is  a  new  delight, 
which  turns  with  quickened  gratitude  to  him,  the  author  of  her 
augmented  bliss. 

Al.    Could  Cora  think  me  serious  ? 

Cora.  I  am  sure  he  will  speak  soon  ;  then  will  be  the  last  of 
the  three  holidays  allowed  by  Nature's  sanction  to  the  fond  moth- 
er's heart. 

Al.    What  are  those  three  ? 

Cora.  The  ecstasy  of  his  birth  I  pass  ;  that,  in  part,  is  selfish. 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.      22*7 

But  when  first  the  white  blossoms  of  his  teeth  appear,  breaking 
the  crimson  buds  that  did  encase  them,  that  is  a  day  of  joy  ;  next, 
when  from  his  father's  arms  he  runs  without  support,  and  clings 
laughing  and  delighted  to  his  mother's  knee,  that  is  the  mother's 
heart's  next  holiday  ;  and  sweeter  still  the  third,  whene'er  his 
little,  stammering  tongue  shall  utter  the  grateful  sound  of  Father  ! 
Mother  !    0,  that  is  the  dearest  joy  of  all !  " 

Susan  drank  in  every  word,  and  involuntarily 
murmured,  "0,  I  could  play  Cora  with  my  whole 
soul !  I  have  felt  all  that ;  I  have  had  those  holidays 
with  my  Tina.  But  they  would  never  give  me  such 
a  part  to  act ;  they  would  not  trust  me  with  it ; 
though  I  could  play  it  —  I  feel  I  could  !  " 

Alonzo  and  Rolla  go  forth  to  fight  the  Spaniards. 
Alonzo  is  taken  prisoner  by  Pizarro.  Rolla  breaks 
to  Cora  the  fatal  intelligence  that  her  husband  is 
either  slain  or  captive  to  the  Spaniards. 

She  determines  to  seek  him,  even  in  the  Spanish 
camp ;  and,  deaf  to  Rolla's  prayers  and  remon- 
strances, snatches  up  the  child,  distractedly  ex- 
claiming :  "  My  child,  everywhere  we  shall  be  safe  ! 
A  wretched  mother,  bearing  a  poor  orphan  in  her 
arms,  has  Nature's  passport  through  the  world  !  " 
and  rushes  forth. 

Cora  is  next  seen  in  a  thick  forest,  her  child  asleep 
on  a  bed  of  leaves  ;  the  elements  are  supposed  to  be 
at  war.  The  order  is  given  (theatrically)  for  abun- 
dance of  thunder  and  lightning  and  rain  at  night. 
Manufactured  tempests  are  omitted  at  rehearsal. 
Cora  covers  the  child  with  her  mantle  and  veil,  and, 
faint  and  weary,  watches  beside  the  leafy  couch. 

Meantime  Rolla  has  sought  Alonzo ;  has  found 
means  to  enter  his  dungeon,  and,  by  a  stratagem,  to 


228    the  prompter's  daughter. 

set  him  at  liberty,  remaining  a  prisoner  in  his  place. 
Alonzo  is  passing  through  the  very  forest  which  Cora 
has  just  reached,  on  her  way  to  the  Spanish  camp. 
Cora  recognizes  his  voice  in  the  distance,  and,  start- 
ing up,  joyfully  flies  to  seek  him. 

Two  Spanish  soldiers  enter,  see  the  slumbering 
child,  and  bear  it  away.  The  child  is  taken  by  the 
soldiers  to  Pizarro,  and  brought  before  him  during 
his  interview  with  Rolla.  Rolla  incautiously  speaks 
of  the  boy  as  Alonzo's  child.  Pizarro,  on  hearing 
this,  determines  to  keep  the  infant ;  for,  through  him, 
Alonzo  is  again  his  prisoner.  Rolla  argues  —  pleads 
with  him  ;  forgets  the  warrior,  and  sinks  upon  his 
knees,  imploring  that  the  child  may  be  given  back 
to  the  agonized  mother.  Pizarro  remains  obdu- 
rate. 

Then  Rolla  indignantly  starts  up,  draws  his  sword, 
and  cries,  u  Then  was  this  sword  Heaven's  gift ! " 
He  darts  forward,  seizes  the  child  by  the  arm,  and, 
whirling  him  round  with  a  wild,  melodramatic  action, 
holds  him  at  arm's  length  above  his  head. 

Tina  uttered  a  shrill  cry  of  pain,  as  she  was  tightly 
grasped  by  the  tragedian  and  whirled  aloft.  That 
cry  pierced  the  mother's  heart,  and  she  sprang  up 
from  her  concealed  seat,  and  ran  on  the  stage. 

"0,  sir,  you  have  hurt  her !  Give  her  to  me ! 
Put  her  down,  —  pray,  put  her  down  !  You  have 
dislocated  her  arm  !  " 

A  stifled  moan  from  the  child  showed  that  she  was 
acutely  suffering,  and  the  actor  dropped  his  arm, 
saying,  "  What  is  the  brat  whimpering  about  ?  If 
she  is  going  to  do  that  at  night,  she  '11  play  the 
deuce  with  my  best  point !  " 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     229 

Susan  was  examining  Tina's  arm,  and  questioning 
the  gentle  child,  who,  even  at  that  early  age,  exhib- 
ited wonderful  self-control  and  power  of  endurance. 
Robin,  too,  had  left  his  prompter-seat,  and  was 
stooping  anxiously  over  the  little  one.  Fortunately 
the  arm  was  not  dislocated,  only  slightly  sprained. 
The  probabilities  were  that,  in  a  second  experiment 
of  the  kind,  especially  if  made  during  more  impas- 
sioned acting  at  night,  the  child's  fragile  arm  would 
be  dislocated  or  broken. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  interruption  ?"  de- 
manded Mr.  Tuttle,  in  a  dignified  tone  of  rebuke. 
Mrs.  Truehart,  leave  the  stage  !  Proceed,  sir,  with 
your  part,"  addressing  the  actor ;  "  try  that  point 
over  again." 

But  Susan's  maternal  nature  conquered  her  habit- 
ual timidity.  She  stood  up  erect  and  determined 
before  the  cold-blooded  stage-manager,  holding  Tina's 
hand. 

"  Not  with  my  child,  sir,"  she  answered,  in  a  voice 
such  as  no  one  had  ever  heard  her  use,  it  was  so  firm, 
and  clear,  and  almost  defiant.  "  Would  you  have 
her  arm  dislocated  or  broken  ?  Do  you  think  she 
would  shriek  unless  the  pain  had  been  terrible,  —  she 
who  hardly  knows  what  it  is  to  cry  ?  She  never 
cried,  as  other  children  do.  He  must  have  almost 
broken  her  arm.  He  shall  not  lift  her  in  that  manner 
again  ! " 

"  I  ;d  not  miss  making  that  point  for  the  arms  of 
a  dozen  children  ! "  said  Upton,  excitedly. 

"  Then,  Mrs.  Truehart,  we  must  find  another 
child ;  and,  if  the  new  child  fill  one  part,  she  must 
fill  all  during  the  season.  We  do  not  want  two  chil- 
20 


230   the  prompter's  daughter. 

dren  regularly  engaged  in  the  theatre,"  answered 
Tuttle,  unconcernedly. 

Susan  turned  deadly  pale,  and  was  seized  with  an 
inward  trembling.  The  loss  of  the  situation  to  the 
child,  and  her  own  discharge,  which  would  probably 
follow,  were  calamities  that  would  bring  starvation 
to  her  door.     Still  she  stood  resolute,  and  replied, 

'■'  Discharge  us  both,  sir,  if  you  please  ;  better  that 
we  should  starve,  without  employment,  than  that  I 
should  see  my  child  crippled." 

"  It  would  only  be  the  fashion  of  the  family," 
sneered  Mr.  Upton,  in  an  under  tone  ;  but  the  unfeel- 
ing taunt  reached  the  ears  of  both  Robin  and  Susan... 

"Susan,  take  our  daughter  home!"  said  Robin 
Truehart. 

Our  daughter !  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
heard  him  designate  the  child  as  "  our  daughter," 
and  there  was  a  strange  solemnity  mingled  with 
pride  in  his  tone.  His  countenance  had  grown  more 
ashy  than  hers  through  suppressed  emotion.  High 
hopes  had  he  builded  upon  that  child's  successes  in 
the  theatre ;  in  an  instant  they  were  dashed  to  the 
ground. 

Mr.  Higgins,  who  had  been  writing  at  the  stage- 
manager's  table,  now  stepped  forward.  He  was  a 
shrewd,  calculating,  selfish  man.  The  dislocation 
of  a  child's  arm  would  to  him  have  been  a  matter  of 
very  little  importance  ;  but  he  knew  how  valuable 
Tina  was  in  the  theatre.  He  remembered  that  he 
paid  both  father  and  mother  a  much  smaller  sum 
than  would  procure  equally  good  substitutes  for 
their  situations  ;  he  had  noted  the  effect  produced 
by  that  child  upon  the  audience  whenever  she  ap- 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     231 

peaved  ;  and,  though  his  own  heart  had  now  and 
then  warmed  towards  her,  it  was  interest  rather  then 
any  nobler  feeling  which  prompted  him  to  interfere. 

"Is  there  no  safer  manner  of  lifting  the  child  ?" 
he  inquired  of  the  enraged  actor. 

"No,  sir;  my  point  depends  upon  my  holding  a 
drawn  sword  in  one  hand,  and  Cora's  child  in  the 
other,  with  my  arm  extended,  while  I  stand  in  this 
attitude "  (exemplifying);  "and  I  wouldn't  spoil 
that  point  for  all  the  crying  children  in  Christendom  i 
If  this  puny  thing  won't  do,  let  me  have  a  child  that 
will  play  the  part." 

Mr.  Upton  was  drawing  large  houses  ;  that  fact 
entitled  him  to  the  manager's  respect ;  his  wishes 
must  not  be  thwarted.  The  piece  was  a  favorite 
one  ;  it  could  not  be  withdrawn.  Mr.  Higgins  was 
puzzled.  Not  so  Mr.  Tuttle.  As  soon  as  he  sus- 
pected his  superior's  desires,  he  changed  his  tone. 

"  Not,  for  the  world,  have  the  little  darling  in- 
jured ! "  patting  Tina's  head,  and  speaking  in  a 
tone  that  he  meant  to  be  meltingly  tender.  "  The 
point  is  easily  managed.  Mr.  Gildersleaf,  bring  me 
a  leathern  girdle." 

The  girdle  was  soon  selected  out  of 'some  of  the 
heterogeneous  heaps  in  the  memorable  prOperty- 
room.  Mr.  Tuttle  fastened  it  securely  around  the 
child's  waist. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Upton,  elevate  the  child  by  means  of 
this  belt ;  hold  it  firmly  here,  just  at  the  back  ;  you 
will  find  your  point  equally  effective.  I  have  seen 
it  done  a  hundred  times." 

"  No  ;  let  me  try  it  first,"  said  the  still  alarmed 


232   the  prompter's  daughter. 

mother,  as  she  made  an  awkward  attempt  to  imitate 
the  melodramatic  movement  of  the  Peruvian  hero. 

"  Mother,  me  not  afraid  !  "  said  Tina.  "  Please 
do  it !  "  looking  up  winningly  in  the  actor's  face. 

The  tragedian  petulantly  caught  up  the  child, 
throwing  himself  in  a  fine  heroic  attitude.  Tina 
smiled  down  upon  her  mother,  to  show  her  that  she 
felt  safe  and  was  unhurt. 

Rolla  continued  : 

"  Rolla.  Then  was  this  sword  Heaven's  gift,  not  mine  !  Who 
moves  one  step  to  follow  me,  dies  upon  the  spot." 

He  rushes  out,  pursued  by  the  Spaniards,  and  is 
next  seen  crossing  a  high  bridge,  bearing  the  child. 
These  stage-bridges  are  often  hurriedly  and  care- 
lessly erected,  and  cause  frequent  accidents.  Susan 
could  hardly  choke  down  an  exclamation  of  horror. 
The  soldiers  fire  on  Rolla,  but  the  firing  is  not  re- 
hearsed. At  night  this  would  be  another  dreadful 
moment.  How  could  she  endure  to  see  the  guns 
pointed  at  her  child  ?  Some  of  them  might  acci- 
dentally be  loaded  ! 

A  ball  is  supposed  to  strike  Rolla.  When  the 
audience  next  behold  him,  he  staggers  into  Ataliba's 
tent,  reels  towards  Cora,  places  the  child  in  her 
bosom,  and,  at  her  frightened  exclamation  of  "  0 
Heaven  !  there  's  blood  upon  him  ! "  gasps  out, 
"  ;T  is  my  blood,  Cora  !  f.  and,  an  instant  afterwards, 
dies. 

Susan  had  been  deeply  interested  in  the  plot  of 
the  drama ;  but  the  rehearsal,  towards  its  close,  had 
caused  her  a  succession  of  agonies.  That  bridge, 
those  guns,  they  haunted  her  the  rest  of  the  day. 


A  gain  and  again  she  charged  Robin  to  try  the  bridge 
himself,  and  to  inspect  every  gun  carefully.  He 
promised  to  do  so,  and  there  was  little  fear  of  his 
breaking  his  word. 

Night  came,  and  Susan  half  forgot  her  fears  as 
she  dressed  Tina,  and  found  how  lovely  she  looked 
in  her  snowy  tunic  and  golden  girdle,  beneath  which 
the  important  leathern  band  was  safely  fastened.  A 
white  fillet  circled  her  curling  locks,  which  had  taken 
the  hue  of  amber  when  it  reflects  back  a  ray  of  the 
sun.  The  child  had  been  gifted  with  uncommon 
beauty  ;  beauty  of  an  ethereal,  highly  spiritual  char- 
acter. Her  limbs  were  exquisitely  symmetrical, 
though  so  diminutive.  The  brilliant  whiteness  of 
her  complexion  had  almost  an  unearthly  aspect,  and 
Susan  would  never  allow  a  touch  of  stage  rouge  to 
profane  the  child's  colorless  cheek.  Her  singularly 
dilated  eyes,  but  for  their  soft  expression,  would 
have  seemed  too  large  for  her  delicate  face. 

" The  moist, 


Unfathomable  blue  of  those  large  eyes 
Gave  out  its  light  as  twilight  shows  a  star, 
And  drew  the  heart  of  the  beholder  in."  * 

Her  brow  was  high,  and,  when  the  clustering  curls 
were  gathered  back,  the  most  careless  eye  would 
note  that  its  development  strikingly  resembled  that 
of  her  father.  She  inherited,  too,  her  father's  imper- 
turbable patience  ;  but  her  patience  had  not,  like  his, 
a  touch  of  sadness.  It  had  not  been  the  offspring 
of  trial.  It  was  a  natural  gift,  which  early  training 
daily  perfected.     Her  mother's   softness  seemed  to 

*  N.  P.  Willis. 


234   the  prompter's  daughter. 

have  been  infused  into  her  own  more  vivacious 
spirit,  and  evinced  itself  even  in  the  midst  of  the 
exuberant  joyousness,  the  sportive  glee,  that  neither 
father  nor  mother  had  ever  known.  All  her  motions 
were  light,  rapid,  full  of  untutored  freedom. 

The  wonderful  elasticity  of  her  limbs  supplied  the 
want  of  strength.  The  life  of  exertion  which  com- 
menced from  her  cradle  had  inured  her  to  bear  great 
fatigue  without  injury.  How  few,  save  those  who 
have  had  their  faculties  called  into  constant  action, 
know  what  wonders  habit  will  accomplish  ! 

There,  was  something  about  the  child,  an  indescrib- 
able hallowing  presence,  which  produced  a  marked 
effect  throughout  the  theatre.  I  once  saw  a  sunbeam 
stealing  through  a  crevice  in  the  roof,  and  glancing 
upon  the  darkened  stage,  at  a  rehearsal.  That  single 
streak  of  golden  light,  falling  upon  the  dust,  and 
paint,  and  faded  scenery,  and  glaring  imitations  of 
nature,  spoke  to  me,  with  a  thrilling  tone,  of  green 
murmuring  foliage  ;  of  air  voiceful  with  rural  sounds  ; 
of  the  flower-studded  earth ;  of  nature's  rich  store- 
house of  vernal  treasures  ;  of  all  that  sunbeam  shone 
upon,  far  away  fro'm  this  mockery  and  drudgery,  this 
mimicry  and  misery.  As  I  watched  the  beam  illumi- 
nating the  surrounding  gloom,  my  mind  was  filled 
with  fresh  and  strengthening  aspirations,  that  be- 
longed not  to  this  life  of  representation,  that  had  no 
affinity  with  the  place  and  the  hour.  It  is  years  ago, 
yet  I  have  never  forgotten  that  one  ray  of  light,  and 
the  sensations  and  reflections  which  it  called  into 
existence. 

Tina  is  closely  associated  with  that  sun-ray  in  my 
thoughts ;    she   was    the    living    sunbeam    shining 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     235 

through  the  darkness  of  selfishness  and  strife  in  the 
theatre  to  which  she  belonged.  She  lured  all  things 
on  to  love  her  ;  she  discovered  and  unconsciously 
threaded  her  way,  through  some  vulnerable  avenue, 
into  almost  every  heart.  Voices  softened  when  they 
spoke  to  her ;  unsmiling  lips  grew  blander  at  her 
caress  ;  unloving  eyes  shone  with  something  like 
affection  when  they  looked  into  hers.  The  purify- 
ing sphere  of  innocence  —  the  sphere  of  the  angels 
about  childhood,  which,  though  invisible,  is  so  often 
perceived  —  gradually  penetrated,  with  its  holy  influ- 
ence, the  spirits  of  all  those  with  whom  she  commu- 
nicated. 

Susan,  too,  was  treated  with  more  consideration 
and  respect,  because  the  child  was  hers.  Robin, 
whose  quiet,  upright  consistency  of  conduct  won 
him  spontaneous  esteem,  since  Tina's  advent  in  the 
theatre  had  become  a  person  of  decided  importance. 
Those  who,  a  few  years  before,  had  either  spurned 
or  pitied  the  "  old  hunchback,"  regarded  him  with  a 
feeling  akin  to  envy,  when  that  lovely  child  would 
spring  upon  his  knees,  and  wind  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  and  cover  his  furrowed  cheeks  with  kisses,  and 
tenderly  pat  the  protruding  hunch,  as  though  it  were 
an  especial  object  for  caresses. 

And  what  was  the  child  to  Robin,  the  poor  prompt- 
er, whose  days  were  passed  within  the  sunless  walls, 
whose  evenings  in  the  gas-lighted  glare  of  the  thea- 
tre ?  —  upon  whose  very  soul  "  stage-dust"  had  fall- 
en in  such  thick  clouds  that  they  shut  out  all  na- 
ture's pastoral  loveliness ;  who  breathed  but  gaseous 
air  ;  who  only  knew  beauteous  sounds  and  sights, 
and  noble  deeds,  and  heroic  sacrifices,  through  the 


236    the  prompter's  daughter. 

inspirations  of  the  poets  which  he  heard  declaimed, 
and  saw  represented,  until  his  brain  whirled  with 
imaginings  which  the  eye  and  the  heart  longed  to 
pronounce  realities  !  All  that  his  life  had  lacked  be- 
fore, all  that  it  had  foregone,  Tina  was  now  to  him. 

k<  He  pineth  not  for  fields  and  brooks, 
Wild  flowers  and  singing  birds; 
For  Summer  smileth  in  her  looks, 
And  singeth  in  her  words." 

The  child  and  its  mother  had  transformed  his  life 
of  care  and  anxiety  into  a  paradisiacal  existence. 

But,  to  return  to  Pizarro.  The  drama  was  enacted 
with  more  than  usual  eclat.  Tina's  appearance 
called  forth  a  warm  welcome.  Pieces  of  silver  and 
gold  were  showered  upon  the  stage.  Tina  already 
knew  something  of  the  value  of  money  —  already 
comprehended  the  privations  and  necessities  of  her 
parents.  She  looked  at  the  glittering  coin  with  wish- 
ful eyes,  that  would  not  be  withdrawn.  She  had 
been  taught  that  she  must  not  stoop  and  gather  these 
showered  donations.  True,  they  were  intended  for 
her ;  but  stage  etiquette,  of  long-established  stand- 
ing, had  decreed  that  money  thrown  upon  the  stage 
should  become  the  perquisite  of  the  carpenters  and 
property-men.  Once  Tina  put  her  foot  upon  a  half- 
sovereign  ;  she  thought  that  no  one  saw  her  ;  her 
lithe  limb  quivered  with  the  strong  temptation  ;  she 
might  so  easily  pick  it  up  ;  it  would  buy  coal  for  her 
mother  !  Then  came  a  sensation  of  having  commit- 
ted some  indefinite  wrong  ;  a  fear,  an  oppression ; 
she  pushed  the  shining  golden  coin  away,  and  avert- 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     237 

ed  her  eyes.  Thus  early  was  she  tempted  ;  thus 
early  did  she  learn  resistance  ! 

So  great  were  Susan's  heart-flutterings  when 
Rolla  drew  his  sword  and  seized  Cora's  child,  that 
the  anxious  mother  hid  her  face.  The  leathern  gir- 
dle might  not  be  securely  fastened  —  might  break! 
She  could  not  look  !  She  heard  the  well-known 
words,  heard  the  thunders  of  applause  which  the 
tragedian's  favorite  point  always  elicited,  and  then 
Robin's  whisper  greeted  her  ears,  "  All  right,  Sue  ; 
the  birdie 's  quite  safe  !  See  how  lovely  she  looks, 
and  how  she  smiles  at  you  !  " 

Then  Susan  dared  to  look  up. 

Rolla  rushed  from  the  stage  with  the  child  still 
held  aloft,  ran  rapidly  past  Susan,  and  ascended  the 
steps  which  led  to  the  bridge  without  lowering  his 
burden.  Of  course,  the  instant  he  appeared  upon 
the  bridge,  the  guns  of  the  Spaniards  were  levelled 
towards  him.  They  were  fired  so  suddenly  that 
Susan  saw  the  danger  was  over  before  she  had  time 
for  a  new  alarm.  She  hurried  round  behind  the 
"  flats,"  to  the  left-hand  wing,  where  Rolla,  after 
crossing  the  bridge,  had  made  his  exit.  She  found 
him  dabbling  her  child's  dress  and  his  own  with  red 
paint  —  a  darkish  imitation  of  not  very  healthful 
blood.  Susan  did  not  venture  to  address  him.  The 
work  was  accomplished  rapidly  and  silently.  Again 
Rolla  appeared  before  the  audience ;  Cora  received 
her  child,  the  hero  died  ;  soon  after,  the  curtain  fell, 
and  Tina,  in  her  blood-stained  dress,  bounded  joy- 
fully into  her  mother's  arms. 

That  same  season,  she  enacted  the  Count's  child, 
in  the  Stranger ;  the  petted   child,  in  Grandfather 


238    the  prompter's  daughter. 

Whitehead ;  one  of  the  Babes  in  the  Wood,  and  a 
number  of  similar  parts.  Now  and  then,  Susan  ex- 
perienced the  delight  of  appearing  upon  the  stage 
with  her  child.  On  these  rare  occasions,  what  artist 
would  not  have  thought  the  face  of  the  hunchbacked 
prompter,  as  he  watched  them  both,  a  study  ? 


CHAPTER    III. 

Precocious  Mental  Development.  —  Religious  Training.  —  The 
Young  Sunday-school  Teacher.  —  Miss  Amory's  Proposition. 
—  Building  the  Mansion  in  which  we  shall  dwell  in  the  Great 
Hereafter.  —  The  Child-Actress  at  Sunday- School.  —  Miss 
Amory's  Horror  of  a  Theatre.  —  Miss  HaughtonvilWs  Re- 
cognition of  Tina.  —  The  Discovery.  —  A  Scene  in  Sunday- 
School.  —  Robin's  Disclosure  to  his  Child.  —  Life's  First 
Bitter  Lesson. —  Change  in  Tina.  —  Juvenile  Persecutions. 

As  the  atmosphere  of  the  hot-house  forces  the 
flower  into  rapid  development,  so  Tina's  premature 
training  produced  a  precocious  mental  expansion. 
With  unwearied  devotion,  her  parents  seized  every 
leisure  moment  to  instruct  the  child.  Neither  re- 
flected that  they  were  cultivating  her  brain  at  the 
expense  of  her  physique;  making  large  drafts  upon 
the  former  which  must  inevitably  impoverish  the 
latter  ;  undermining  her  finely-moulded  organization 
for  the  transient  display  of  its  marvellous  construc- 
tion. 

To  sow  the  seeds  of  religious  knowledge  as  early 
as  her  infantile  mind  could  receive  them,  was  not  to 
commit  a  similar  error.  As  soon  as  she  could  lisp, 
she  had  been  taught  to  fold  her  hands  and  bow  her 
knees,  and  lift  up  her  soft  voice  in  prayer.  The 
Word  of  God  had  grown  familiar  to  her  ears  before 
she  could  read,  and  her  puzzling  questions  often 
tested  the  theological  knowledge  of  her  parents.   As 


240    the  prompter's  daughter. 

the  mother  wondered  over  the  child's  quick  percep- 
tion in  all  scriptural  matters,  she  would  say  to  her- 
self, "  Children  are  so  much  nearer  heaven  than  we  ! 
It  must  be  so  ;  for  does  not  Holy  Writ  tell  us  that 
their  angels  —  the  angels  who  watch  ovei  them  —  do 
always  see  the  face  of  our  heavenly  Father  ?  " 

She  had  no  thought  of  ever  sending  Tina  to 
school ;  that  is,  to  any  but  the  Sabbath-school  of 
the  neighboring  church.  There  she  became  a  pupil 
at  five  years  old.  One  of  those  saintly  young  girls, 
whose  life  fashion  could  not  fill  up  and  satisfy,  who 
yearned  to  bestow  on  others  the  good  gifts  she  had 
received,  whose  heart  longed  to  perform  uses  and 
dispense  blessings, — finding  that  her  position  in  aris- 
tocratic society  closed  many  avenues  to  this  exercise 
of  good,  offered  herself  as  a  teacher  in  that  Sunday- 
school.  She  was  very  zealous  in  seeking  out  little 
lambs  to  bring  into  the  fold  of  Sabbath-day  instruc- 
tion. She  had  noticed  Tina  in  church,  and  one  Sun- 
day accosted  Susan,  and  asked  her  to  allow  the  child 
to  join  a  class  just  forming.    Susan  gladly  consented. 

When  she  and  Robin  talked  over  Miss  Amory's 
proposition,  he  said,  "  Perhaps  they  may  teach  her 
more  than  we  know  !  Let 's  give  the  birdie  all  the 
knowledge  of  the  other  world  we  can,  that  it  may  be 
a  help  to  her  in  this.  Truth  will  be  a  staff  for  her 
to  lean  upon,  to  keep  her  feet  from  stumbling  on  the 
rough  road.  Did  you  mark,  Susan,  what  the  good 
old  clergyman  said  in  his  sermon,  this  morning  ?  — 
that  every  day,  every  hour,  every  minute,  we  spend 
here,  has  its  effect  upon  our  lives  in  eternity.  That 
we  are  every  day  building  the  mansion  in  which  we 
are  to  dwell  hereafter  ;  that  we  may  lay  broad  and 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     241 

deep,  and  erect  a  noble  edifice,  or  so  cramp  our 
souls  that  they  will  only  be  fit  to  inhabit  a  narrow 
and  sunless  home  in  the  eternal  future.  How  some- 
thing stirred  within  my  spirit,  and  responded  to  his 
words  when  he  said  that  if  we  loved  the  Lord  in  our 
inmost  hearts  there  would  be  no  difficulty  about  the 
ways  and  means  of  serving  Him ;  that  He  would  surely 
give  us  the  desired  opportunity.  He  would  afford 
us  facilities  for  developing  all  that  is  good  and  true 
within  us.  He  would  meet  us  in  our  business,  our 
social  intercourse,  our  very  recreations.  That  we 
would  no  longer  look  upon  life  as  so  much  drudgery, 
so  much  to  be  done  for  the  mere  sake  of  a  subsistence, 
but  that  all  things  would  be  seen  in  the  light  of  uses, 
of  things  to  be  done  in  order  to  exercise  the  heavenly 
quality  of  benefiting  and  blessing  those  around  us  ; 
that  this  quality  would  thus  daily  grow  and  expand 
our  souls ;  that  the  blessings  of  life  would  be  con- 
tinually multiplied,  and  trials  and  temptations,  and 
troubles  and  misfortunes,  would  all  turn  to  blessings  ! 
Were  not  those  his  words,  Sue  ?  Do  you  remember 
them?" 

"  Yes,  every  syllable,  and  who  can  feel  their  truth 
better  than  you  and  I,  Robin  ?  " 

The  next  Sabbath  found  Tina  at  Sunday-school, 
seated  with  a  group  of  little'  girls  in  Miss  Amory's 
class.  When  the  bells  began  to  toll,  and  the  school 
was  dismissed,  Tina's  young  mother  and  hunch- 
backed father  were  standing  at  the  door  awaiting 
her.  They  could  not  bear  to  be  separated  from  their 
child  in  church.  Their  holy  enjoyment  of  the  service 
was  not  complete  unless  she  sat  between  them  ;  for 
those  three  were  all  this  world  to  each  other  —  all  of 


242        the   prompter's   daughter. 

human  existence  they  asked  to  make  heaven  of  the 
other  world. 

Thus  Sabbath  after  Sabbath  passed.  Tina  and  her 
parents  loved  this  day  of  rest  and  worship  better 
than  all  others.  The  child  became  a  great  favorite 
with  Miss  Amory  ;  but  the  latter  knew  nothing  of 
Tina's  history.  A  theatre  the  young  Sunday-school 
teacher  had  never  entered.  She  had  adopted  the 
social  fiction —  had  become  the  dupe  of  that  ignorant 
prejudice  which  caused  her  to  look  upon  the  temple  of 
dramatic  art  with  a  half  species  of  horror.  She  enter- 
tained a  mysterious  sort  of  belief  that  a  theatre  was 
some  "  dreadful  place,"  replete  with  baneful  influ- 
ences ;  that  none  but  worthless  people  found  employ- 
ment there.  A  theatre,  and  the  angelic-looking  child 
over  whose  spirituality,  gentleness,  and  intellectual 
brilliancy,  she  had  so  often  wondered,  were  never 
associated  in  her  mind.  But  it  was  not  possible  for 
this  state  of  things  to  last. 

Tina  had  become  so  great  an  attraction  at  the 
theatre  that  plays  were  constantly  selected  for  the 
very  purpose  of  displaying  her  histrionic  talents. 
She  now  began  to  personate  important  parts.  Her 
naturalness  of  manner,  richly-cadenced  voice,  her 
correct  enunciation,  and  fine  elocution  (the  result  of 
her  father's  careful  training),  and  the  impulsiveness 
with  which  she  threw  herself  into  her  role,  produced 
startling  effects.  It  chanced  that  one  of  Tina's  Sun- 
day-school companions,  belonging  to  a  proud  but 
parvenu  family,  saw  Tina  at  the  theatre,  recognized 
her,  looked  for  the  name  on  the  play-bill,  found  it 
"  Tina  Truehart,"  the  same  as  that  of  her  youthful 
associate.     The  ill-bred  girl  grew  indignant  at  the 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     243 

recollection  of  the  familiar  manner  in  which  she  had 
conversed  with  the  little  actress  ;  she  remembered 
that  she  had  made  room  for  the  pretty  child  to  sit  by 
her  side  ;  had  begged  her  not  to  occupy  any  other 
place  ;  had  coaxed  Tina  to  use  her  books  ;  had  en- 
circled her  waist  with  her  arm  when  they  were  read- 
ing from  the  same  Bible.  The  wrath  of  Miss  Haugh- 
tonville  rose  in  proportion  to  the  measure  of  kindness 
bestowed  on  the  juvenile  but  unrecognized  actress. 

The  next  Sunday  Tina  entered  the  school  at  a  later 
hour  than  usual ;  she  had  been  much  fatigued  during 
the  week,  and  Susan  could  not  bear  to  wake  her 
from  the  deep,  refreshing  sleep  which  sealed  her  eye- 
lids long  after  daylight.  She  entered  radiant  with 
smiles,  her  fair  hair  dropping  in  a  shower  of  natural 
curls  around  her  hueless  face,  which  even  her  rapid 
walking  had  failed  to  tinge.  She  was  breathing  so 
quickly,  from  the  hurried  exercise,  that  she  could 
hardly  wish  her  teacher  good-morning.  She  took  her 
seat,  as  usual,  beside  Miss  Haughtonville  ;  but  the 
young  girl,  who  was  by  four  years  her  senior,  cast 
upon  her  a  look  of  serio-comic  disdain,  rose,  and 
changed  her  place. 

"  Don't  go  away,  Miss  Clara !  There  is  room 
enough  ;  why  are  you  going  ?  "  said  Tina,  affection- 
ately, though  still  panting  for  breath. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  been  associating  with 
an  actress,  Miss  Tina  Truehart,  and  I  would  not 
demean  myself  by  sitting  beside  an  actress'  daugh- 
ter." 

"  An  actress  !  "  exclaimed  the  young  teacher. 

"  An  actress  !  "  echoed  several  of  the  elder  schol- 
ars. 


244        the   prompter's   daughter. 

"Yes,  an  actress!"  replied  Miss  Haughtonville. 
"  I  saw  her  on  the  stage,  myself,  last  Friday  night, 
all  dressed  out  in  gauze  and  spangles  ;  and  I  saw  her 
mother  too  !  They  're  both  actresses  !  It 's  per- 
fectly shocking  to  think  of  her  being  here  associating 
with  us!" 

Tina's  very  pulses  seemed  suspended,  so  great 
was  her  amazement.  She  sat  staring  at  Miss  Haugh- 
tonville as  though  some  waking  nightmare  possessed 
her.  No  one  spoke.  When  her  power  of  utterance 
returned,  she  bent  towards  her  teacher,  and  gasped 
out,  "  Shocking  !     What  does  she  mean  ?  " 

Miss  Amory  was  so  startled  at  the  sudden  revela- 
tion that  she  quite  forgot  the  child's  possible  sensa- 
tions, and  could  only  say,  in  a  deprecatory  tone, 
"  It 's  not  true  !  You  don't  belong  to  such  a  shock- 
ing place  as  a  theatre  ?  " 

"  Shocking  place  !  "  and  Tina  started  up.  "  We 
don't  belong  to  any  shocking  place  !  My  dear  mother 
and  my  father,  they  are  as  good  —  as  good  —  as  good 
as  you  want  me  to  be  when  you  tell  me  I  must  be 
one  of  God's  children  !  "  Tina's  slight  frame  shook 
violently,  and  her  voice  was  so  tearfully  tremulous 
that  she  could  hardly  articulate. 

"Is  your  mother  an  actress?  —  are  you  an  act- 
ress ?  "  asked  Miss  Amory. 

"  Yes,  father  is  prompter  and  assistant  copyist, 
and  mother  acts  '  utility  parts,'  audi  act  the  chil- 
dren," replied  Tina,  becoming  more  composed  through 
the  conviction  that  no  just  reproach  could  attach 
itself  to  them  ;  "  and  what  has  that  to  do  with  any- 
thing shacking,  with  anything  wrong  ?  " 

The  child's  innocent  face,  the  guileless  tone  of  her 


voice  as  she  uttered  these  words,  and  the  earnest, 
indignant  manner  in  which  she  defended  her  parents, 
recalled  Miss  Amory  to  herself.  The  thought  flashed 
through  her  mind,  "  I  have  unintentionally  wounded 
and  injured  this  poor  child  !  What  do  I  know  about 
theatres  ?  The  theatre  may  be  the  terrible  place  they 
say  it  is,  but  I  have  found  nothing  but  godliness  in 
this  little  child." 

Tina  stood  looking  in  her  teacher's  face,  her  eyes 
glittering  with  unshed  tears,  and  her  usually  pallid 
countenance  crimsoned  by  a  sense  of  shame  which 
she  could  not  herself  comprehend. 

"  Sit  down,  Tina,  and  we  will  say  no  more  about 
it,"  said  Miss  Amory  ;  "  you  are  here  to  learn  your 
catechism  and  lesson  from  the  Word,  and  I  have 
always  found  you  a  good  little  girl,  and  very  obedient 
and  studious.  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  your  con- 
duct here." 

The  child  remained  standing.  "  But  my  mother  ! 
my  dear  mother  !  you  do  not  think  —  you  will  not 
let  these  young  ladies  think  she  could  do  anything 
shocking !  0,  Miss  Lucy,  you  don't  know  my 
mother,  and  how  good  she  is!  " 

14  You  are  right  to  love  her,  Tina ;  no  doubt  she 
is  very  good  ;  there,  sit  down." 

Tina  obeyed,  and  took  her  seat  as  far  as  possible 
from  any  of  the  other  children.  She  did  not  compre- 
hend the  charge  brought  against  her  or  her  beloved 
parents,  but  she  was  instinctively  conscious  of  a 
barrier  raised  between  herself  and  her  former  com- 
panions. In  vain  she  attempted  to  fix  her  mind  upon 
her  book ;  she  kept  involuntarily  repeating  the 
21 


246    the  prompter's  daughter. 

words,  "  Shocking  —  shocking  —  how  is  it  shocking  ? 
How  is  it  bad  ?     What  could  they  mean  I  " 

When  Sunday-school  was  over,  and  she  joined  her 
parents,  they  noticed  her  sweet  eyes  impearled  with 
tears,  her  flushed  cheeks,  and  agitated  manner.  The 
hearts  of  both  were  troubled  with  a  vague  fear  that 
half  divined  the  truth.  The  service  seemed  very, 
very  long,  that  day.  When  it  ended,  and  they  were 
in  the  street  again,  Tina,  in  a  hurried,  excited  man- 
ner, related  all  that  had  passed. 

"Ah,  my  birdie,  has  the  knowledge  of  the  world's 
prejudice,  the  world's  injustice  to  us  poor  slaves  of 
an  ungrateful  public,  come  to  you  so  soon?"  said 
the  father.  ' '  You  must  e'en  learn  to  bear  all  their  hard 
sayings,  hoping  never  to  deserve  them." 

"But,  father,  what  did  they  mean  by  shocking? 
What  did  they  mean  by  calling  the  theatre  a  shocking 
place  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  can  make  you  understand  it 
clearly,  precious  birdie ;  but  to  theatres  there  have 
sometimes  belonged  bad  persons,  bad  men  and 
women,  who  were  actors  and  actresses,  and  their 
sinfulness  was  made  known  to  the  world.  Generally 
it  was  exaggerated,  and  believed  to  be  far  greater 
than  it  was  ;  and  so  it  came  about  that  some  people 
are  prone  to  think  that  every  one  belonging  to  a 
theatre  is  degraded.  But  it  is  not  so,  my  child ; 
we  have  among  vis  —  as  the  annals  of' crime  show 
that  other  professions  (even  the  highest,  the  ministry 
of  God  itself)  have  —  unprincipled  and  wicked 
people  ;  but  we  have  true,  honest,  God-fearing  people, 
also.  When  you  hear  any  one  say  otherwise,  think 
of  your  dear  mother," — and  he  pressed  Susan's  arm 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     247 

as  on  that  day  when  he  promised  to  be  all  to  her, — 
"  and  remember  that  what  the  world  thinks  cannot 
harm  you.  It  is  ivhat  the  Lord  thinks, —  the  Lord,  who 
sees  your  heart,  your  actions  and  intentions,  —  what 
He  thinks  alone  has  true  importance." 

"  But  must  I  go  to  the  Sunday-school  again, 
father,  when  I  know  they  think  ill  of  me  and  of  my 
mother,  and  that  I  belong  to  a  shocking  place  ?  " 
That  word  shocking  grated  so  harshly  upon  Tina's 
young  ears  !     She  could  not  forget  it. 

"  Yes,  my  daughter,  you  must  go,  and  you  must 
bear  whatever  slights  you  may  meet  with.  You  may 
have  to  encounter  them  in  life,  and  they  cannot  harm 
you.  When  we  reach  home  I  will  read  to  you  about 
some  great  and  good  men,  the  benefactors  of  their 
country,  who  have  been  reviled  and  misjudged  all 
their  lives  ;  but  those  who  were  holy-minded  per- 
formed their  duties  courageously,  all  the  same,  and 
their  spirits  were  not  broken  because  they  were  ill- 
used  and  misunderstood." 

As  the  week  glided  on,  Tina,  for  the  first  time, 
dreaded  the  approach  of  the  Sabbath,  though  she 
never  thought  of  shrinking  from  the  trial  through 
which  her  father  wished  her  to  pass.  Sunday  came, 
—  a  lovely,  calm,  bright  day ;  the  bells  chimed  so 
musically,  everything  animate  and  inanimate  seemed 
to  know  that  it  was  the  Sabbath  of  their  Lord.  With 
a  slow  step  and  drooping  head  Tina  entered  the 
Sunday-school.  Her  eyes  were  cast  down,  as  if  she 
dreaded  to  meet  the  many  curious  looks  turned  upon 
her  ;  for  the  news  that  she  belonged  to  that  myste- 
rious place,  a  theatre,  had  rapidly  spread  throughout 
the   school,    and   the   children    leaned    their  heads 


248         the   prompter's   daughter. 

together  and  whispered  as  she  passed  them.  She 
joined  her  own  class.  Miss  Amory  accosted  her 
kindly.  Without  lifting  her  eyes,  she  seated  herself 
meekly  apart  from  the  other  scholars.  No  words 
were  spoken  except  on  the  subject  of  the  lesson  ;  no 
allusion  was  made  to  the  occurrences  of  the  Sunday 
previous. 

From  that  day  her  whole  demeanor  underwent  a 
change.  The  frolicksome  child  was  no  more  ;  all  her 
buoyancy  disappeared  ;  her  features  wore  a  subdued 
and  chastened  expression  ;  her  ease  of  manner  was 
displaced  by  a  fawn-like  fearfulness,  that  shrank  from 
contact  with  strangers.  She  had  learned  her  first 
sad  lesson  in  life !  There  was  a  chill  about  her 
young  heart  which  could  not  be  warmed  away.  Her 
deep,  dreamy  eyes  still  smiled  constantly,  smiled  on 
all  they  looked  upon, —  and  the  smile  of  the  eye  says 
more  than  that  upon  the  lips, —  but  the  dimpling 
laughter  that  was  wont  to  irradiate  her  face  was 
hushed  forevermore. 

Many  Sabbaths  passed  in  the  same  manner  as  this. 
Tina  was  wholly  separated  from  her  former  friends  ; 
that  is,  she  withdrew  herself  from  them,  dreading 
that  they  might  shun  her.  But  there  were  many 
who  longed  to  speak  to  the  little  girl ;  many  who 
were  touched  by  her  sweet  submissive  ways.  Some 
had  lately  seen  her  on  the  stage,  and  were  curious  to 
approach  the  public  favorite  nearer. 

One  Sunday  she  reached  the  school  unusually  early. 
The  superintendent  and  teachers  were  not  present. 
Only  a  few  scholars  had  assembled.  These  mus- 
tered courage  to  gather  around  Tina,  and  ask  her 
questions.     She  answered  shyly,  but  politely. 


"  Won't  you  walk  on  your  toes  for  us  ?  "  said  one 
saucy  little  miss. 

"Do/7  said  another,  "and  make  us  a  pirouette, 
won't  you?  I  do  so  want  to  see  what  they  call  a 
pirouette  !  " 

"  You  might  act  a  little  for  us  before  the  teachers 
come/'  said  another;  "  now,  don't  be  ill-tempered, 
but  shoio  off  I " 

"  Yes,  show  off!  show  off  1  "  cried  all  the  children. 

Tina  was  so  surrounded  that  she  did  not  know 
which  way  to  turn  ;  her  juvenile  persecutors  met  her 
on  all  sides.  None  heeded  her  embarrassment,  her 
prayers  to  be  left  to  herself;  the  children  only  urged 
her  more  pertinaciously  to  "  show  off."  They  even 
seized  her,  and  tried  to  drag  her  to  the  platform  where 
stood  the  superintendent's  desk  and  chair,  —  chil- 
dren are  such  cruel  tyrants  at  times  !  In  vain  Tina 
remonstrated  and  struggled  ;  they  were  forcing  her 
upon  the  platform,  when  the  entrance  of  one  of  the 
teachers  occasioned  her  release. 

It  was  not  easy  to  resmooth  the  ruffled  plumage 
of  Robin's  poor  birdie,  and  her  little  heart  fluttered 
like  that  of  any  bird  when  pursued  by  vultures  ;  but 
Tina  remembered  her  father's  words,  and  she  sank 
down  in  her  quiet  corner  without  uttering  a  com- 
plaint. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Genius.  —  Sensations  of  the  Youthful  Actress.  —  Tina's  Per- 
sonation of  the  Young  Duke  of  York.  —  Jealousy  of  Richard's 
Representative. — Tina's  First  Call  before  the  Foot-Lights. — 
Sudden  Deafness  of  Mr.  Tuttle. —  Mr.  Higgins'  Command 
and  Motives. — The  Hunchbacked  Prompter's  Delight. —  Duke 
of  York  metamorphosed.  — Merriment  of  the  Audience.  — 
Rumors  heard  by  Mr.  Higgins. —  Robin  bound  by  a  Contract. 
—  Discovery  that  he  has  been  Over-reached.  —  Tina  as  Prince 
Arthur. —  Falling  from  the  Wall. —  Mr.  Upton  softened. — 
William  Tell. — Tina  as  Albert. — A  Tragedian's  Generos- 
ity. — The  Hunchback's,  Gratitude. 

Tina  had  just  entered  her  sixth  year  when  she  was 
intrusted  with  the  role  of  the  young  Duke  of  York, 
in  Shakspeare's  tragedy  of  Richard  the  Third.  The 
pulse  of  true  genius  stirring  within  her  soul,  always 
exultant  when  her  high  gifts  were  brought  into  use, 
caused'her  to  experience  an  inexplicable,  indescriba- 
ble fascination  for  her  profession,  —  a  fascination  that 
counterbalanced  the  weariness,  the  anxieties,  the 
trials,  that  crowd  the  actor's  smoothest  pathway. 
Even  at  that  early  age  she  was  a  close  student  of 
her  art.  She  had  an  intense  love  for  the  poet's  con- 
ception and  for  its  lifelike  embodiment,  rather  than 
any  undue  fondness  for  applause.  The  latter  was 
only  valued  as  a  token  that  she  had  fitly  interpreted 
her  author,  that  she  had  done  her  duty.  The  power 
of  mental  concentration,  of  total  self-forgetfulness, 
is  the  first  great  element  of  dramatic  success ;  and 


this  she  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree.  The  char- 
acter of  the  young  Duke  of  York  she  studied  with 
an  all-absorbing  enthusiasm. 

In  act  fourth,  the  Duke  of  York  enters  with  the 
Archbishop  of  York,  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  the  Duch- 
ess of- York.     The  following  is  the  dialogue  : 

"Duchess.     I  long  with  all  my  heart  to  see  the  prince  ; 
I  hope  he  is  much  grown  since  last  I  saw  him. 

Q.  Eliz.     But  I  hear  no  ;  they  say  my  son  of  York 
Hath  almost  overta'en  him  in  his  growth. 

York.     Ay,  mother,  but  I  would  not  have  it  so. 

Duchess.     Why,  my  good  cousin,  it  is  good  to  grow. 

York.     Grandam,  one  night,  as  we  did  sit  at  supper, 
My  uncle  Rivers  talked  how  I  did  grow 
More  than  my  brother.     Ay,  quoth  my  uncle  Gloster, 
Small  herbs  have  grace,  great  weeds  do  grow  apace  : 
And  since,  methinks,  I  would  not  grow  so  fast, 
Because  sweet  flowers  are  slow,  and  weeds  make  haste. 

Duchess.     Good  faith,  good  faith,  the  saying  did  not  hold 
In  him  that  did  object  the  same  to  thee. 
He  was  the  wretched'st  thing  when  he  was  young, 
So  long  a  growing,  and  so  leisurely, 
That,  if  his  rule  were  true,  he  should  be  gracious. 

Arch.     And  so,  no  doubt,  he  is,  my  gracious  madam. 

Duchess.     I  hope  he  is,  but  yet  let  mothers  doubt. 

York.     Now,  by  my  troth,  if  I  had  been  remembered, 
I  could  have  given  my  uncle's  grace  a  flout, 
To  touch  his  growth  nearer  than  he  touched  mine. 

Duchess.     How,  my  young  York  ?    I  prithee  let  me  hear  it. 

York.     Marry,  they  say  my  uncle  grew  so  fast 
That  he  could  gnaw  a  crust  at  two  hours  old  : 
'T  was  full  two  years  ere  I  could  get  a  tooth. 
Grandam,  this  would  have  been  a  biting  jest. 

Duchess.     I  prithee,  pretty  York,  who  told  you  this? 

York.     Grandam,  his  nurse. 

Duchess.    His  nurse  ?  Why,  she  was  dead  ere  thou  wert  born. 

York.     If  't  were  not  she,  I  cannot  tell  who  told  me. 

Q.  Eliz.     A  parlous  boy  !     Go  to,  —  you  are  too  shrewd." 


252    the  prompter's  daughter. 

These  salient  points  were  given  with  an  earnest 
archness  that  evinced  how  thoroughly  the  child  com- 
prehended the  character  she  assumed. 

In  act  third  the  young  Duke  enters  again,  accom- 
panied by  Hastings  and  the  Cardinal.  His  elder 
brother,  the  Prince  of' Wales,  thus  greets  the  youth- 
ful Duke : 

"Prince.     Richard  of  York,  how  fares  our  loving  brother?  " 

A  touch  of  childlike  deference  mingled  with  the 
tone  of  affection  in  which  the  young  Duke  replied  : 

"  York.     Well,  my  dread  lord,  so  must  I  call  you  now. 

Prince.     Ay,  brother  ;  to  our  grief,  as  it  is  yours. 
Too  late  he  died  that  might  have  kept  that  title, 
Which  by  his  death  hath  lost  much  majesty  ! 

Gloster.     How  fares  our  cousin,  noble  lord  of  York  ? 

York.     I  thank  you,  gentle  uncle.     0,  my  lord, 
You  said  that  idle  weeds  are  fast  in  growth  ; 
The  prince,  my  brother,  hath  outgrown  me  far. 

Gloster.     He  hath,  my  lord. 

York.  And  therefore  is  he  idle  ? 

Gloster.     0,  my  fair  cousin,  I  must  not  say  so. 

York.     Then  is  he  more  beholden  to  you  than  I. 

Gloster.     He  may  command  me,  as  my  sovereign  ; 
But  you  have  power  in  me,  as  in  a  kinsman. 

York.     I  pray  you,  uncle,  then  give  me  this  dagger. 

Gloster.     My  dagger,  little  cousin  ?     With  all  my  heart. 

Prince.     A  beggar,  brother? 

York.  Of  my  kind  uncle,  that  I  know  will  give  ; 

And  being  but  a  toy,  which  is  no  grief  to  give. 

Gloster.     A  greater  gift  than  that  I'll  give  my  cousin. 

York.     A  greatei  gift  ?     0,  that 's  the  sword  to  it ! 

Gloster.     Ay,  gentle  cousin,  were  it  light  enough. 

York.     0  then,  I  see,  you  '11  part  with  but  light  gifts  ; 
In  weightier  things  you  '11  say,  a  beggar  :  nay. 

Gloster.     It  is  too  weighty  for  your  grace  to  wear. 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     253 

York.    I  weigh  it  lightly  were  it  heavier. 

Gloster.     What !  would  you  have  my  weapon,  little  lord? 

York.     I  would  that  I  might  thank  you  as  you  call  me. 

Gloster.     How  ? 

York.  Little. 

Prince.     My  lord  of  York  will  still  be  cross  in  talk  ; 
Uncle,  your  grace  knows  how  to  bear  with  him. 

York.     You  mean,  to  bear  me,  not  to  bear  with  me. 
Uncle,  my  brother  mocks  both  you  and  me  ; 
Because  that  I  am  little,  like  an  ape, 
He  thinks  that  you  should  bear  me  on  your  shoulders. 

Buckingham.     With  what  a  sharp  provided  wit  he  reasons  ! 
To  mitigate  the  scorn  he  gives  his  uncle, 
He  prettily  and  aptly  taunts  himself. 
So  cunning  and  so  young  is  wonderful  ! 

Gloster.     My  gracious  lord,  wilt  please  you  pass  along? 
Myself,  and  my  good  cousin  Buckingham, 
Will  to  your  mother,  to  entreat  of  her 
To  meet  you  at  the  Tower,  and  welcome  you. 

York.     What  !  will  you  go  unto  the  Tower,  my  lord  ? 

Prince.     My  lord  protector  needs  will  have  it  so. 

York.     I  shall  not  sleep  in  quiet  at  the  Tower. 

Gloster.     Why,  sir,  what  should  you  fear? 

York.     Marry,  my  uncle  Clarence's  angry  ghost ; 
My  grandam  told  me  he  was  murdered  there. 

Prince.     I  fear  no  uncles  dead. 

Gloster.  Nor  none  that  live,  I  hope  ? 

Prince.     An'  if  they  live,  I  hope  I  need  not  fear. 
But  come,  my  lord,  and  with  a  heavy  heart, 
Thinking  on  them,  go  I  unto  the  Tower." 

The  prince  twines  his  arms  around  the  reluctant 
York,  who  looks  back  to  Gloster  with  a  doubtful 
glance,  shaking  his  head  mournfully  while  he  goes 
out,  as  if  some  dark  foreshadowing  of  his  fate  were 
flitting  across  his  mind. 

JVill  it  be  credited  that  the  hearty  applause  called 
forth  by  Tina's  acting  excited  the  displeasure  of  the 
22 


254        the   prompter's  dau  g*h  t  e  b  . 

distinguished  tragedian  who  represented  Kichard? 
He  felt  as  though  the  child's  delineation  of  her  part 
rendered  her  too  prominent  in  a  picture  where  he  had 
the  right  to  stand  in  solitary  conspicuousness.  He 
desired  alone  to  engross  the  public  eye.  His  sur- 
roundings must  all  be  subordinate  accessories,  satel- 
lites that  would  not  interfere  with  his  more  luminous 
shining.  That  he  could  exhibit  envy  towards  a  child 
may  seem  an  absurdity  to  many  ;  it  will  be  recog- 
nized as  an  incident  of  constant  occurrence  by  those 
who  move  within  the  narrow  circle  of  the  profes- 
sion. 

At  the  close  of  the  play,  there  was,  of  course,  a 
call  for  Upton,  who  had  personated  Richard.  But 
he  had  scarcely  made  his  bow  before  the  foot-lights, 
when  a  second  cry  arose  for  the  young  Duke  of  York. 
The  child  had  never  before  been  honored  by  a  similar 
summons,  one  which  actors  highly  value.  After  the 
exertions  and  fatigues  of  the  evening,  the  call  before 
the  curtain  is  to  them  a  refreshing  mark  of  approval, 
which  "  stars  "  are  very  unwilling  to  forego. 

Robin,  from  his  prompter-seat,  heard  the  name  of 
his  child  rising  in  peals.  His  breast  glowed  with 
tumultuous  transport,  yet  stage  etiquette  forbade 
him  to  apprise  Tina,  or  in  any  manner  to  notice 
the  wishes  of  the  audience,  until  the  stage-manager 
sent  forth  his  orders.  Mr.  Tuttle  adhered  to  the 
principle  of  never  putting  an  actor  forward,  for  fear 
that  he  might  rise  above  his  control,  or  demand  an 
increase  of  salary.  He  listened  to  the  call,  compre- 
hended it  perfectly,  secretly  admitted  its  justice, 
but  to  all  appearance  remained  singularly  deaf.     He 


issued  no  commands  ;  he  hoped  the  audience  would 
grow  weary,  and  the  applause  die  away.  But  the 
impression  made  was  too  deep  ;  the  acclamations 
only  grew  louder  when  the  audience  found  their  de- 
mand was  unnoticed. 

Mr.  Higgins,  who,  from  his  post  in  the  box-keep- 
er's office,  could  overhear  all  that  took  place,  now 
hastened  behind  the  scenes,  and  demanded  why  Tut- 
tle  had  not  "  sent  on"  the  child.  It  was  the  manag- 
er's policy  to  encourage  this  favoritism  of  his  patrons, 
for  it  rendered  Tina  doubly  valuable  to  him.  As  for 
spoiling  the  Trueharts,  he  had  no  fear  of  that ;  he 
had  too  great  a  hold  upon  them.  Who  but  he,  he 
asked  himself,  would  have  engaged  a  hunchbacked 
prompter  ?  Did  he  answer  himself  that  when  Robin 
Truehart  applied  for  a  situation  that  hunch  had 
given  the  wily  manager  a  pretext  for  cutting  off  one 
third  of  the  prompter's  usual  salary  ?  0,  no,  he  for- 
got that  small  item,  and  actually  persuaded  himself 
that  he  had  employed  Robin  out  of  charity. 

"  Send  on  Miss  Truehart  at  once,  Tuttle,"  said 
Mr.  Higgins,  majestically. 

Mr.  Tuttle  bowed,  and  declared  he  was  just  on  the 
point  of  doing  so  ;  then  ordered  the  prompter  to 
notify  Miss  Truehart  to  appear  before  the  curtain 
without  delay,  also  to  summon  the  Richmond  of  the 
evening  to  conduct  her. 

Robin's  heart  beat  with  a  stroke  that  was  almost 
audible.  Up  the  long,  narrow  flight  of  stairs  he 
scrambled,  taking  two  steps  at  a  time. 

Susan  had  not  anticipated  this  tribute  to  her  child's 
talents  ;  she  had  disrobed  Tina  of  her  black-velvet 
tunic,  glittering  with  bugle  embroidery.     The  child 


256    the  prompter's  daughter. 

was  now  attired  in  a  coarse  red  calico  dress,  and  a 
white  bib.  She  was  sitting  on  her  mother's  knee, 
half  asleep,  when  Robin  knocked  at  the  door ;  for 
the  dressing-room  was  appropriated  to  half  a  dozen 
ladies  besides  Susan.  In  an  agitated  tone,  he  told 
Susan  to  bring  out  Tina. 

"  What  is  it,  Robin,  dear  ?  v  asked  Susan,  opening 
the  door. 

"  Bring  the  birdie,  quickly  !  She  is  called  —  called 
before  the  curtain  !  Do -you  hear  those  shouts,  wife  ? 
They  are  calling  for  her  —  for  our  little  one  I  She 
played  magnificently  !     Come,  come  quickly." 

Susan  had  never  heard  her  grave,  tranquil  husband 
speak  so  rapidLy,  so  incoherently  ;  she  was  lost  in 
amazement,  and  so  was  the  suddenly-awakened 
child  ;  but  Robin  took  the  latter  in  his  arms,  and  ran 
down  the  steps.  Such  an  interval  had  elapsed,  he 
feared  the  call  would  cease.  The  gentleman  who 
personated  Richmond  was  standing  by  the  curtain, 
waiting  for  it  to  be  drawn  back. 

Susan  only  recovered  her  presence  of  mind  in 
time  to  say,  "You  are  to  curtsey,  darling,  as  you 
cross  the  stage,  —  curtsey  several  times,  —  as  often 
as  they  seem  to  want." 

When  the  audience  beheld,  instead"  of  the  noble 
Duke  of  York,  in  his  rich  ducal  garb,  the  little  girl, 
evidently  startled  out  of  sleep,  in  her  calico  dress, 
and  white  bib,  and  rough  shoes,  there  was  a  general 
laugh.  But  Tina  curtseyed  gracefully,  and  half 
laughed  herself,  comprehending  their  cause  of  mer- 
riment. She  had  established  a  species  of  magnetic 
communication  between  herself  and  her  audiences, 
and  this  response   to  their  mirth   drew  her  more 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     25t 

closely  to  them.  They  saw,  too,  how  lovely  was 
this  child  in  her  mean  attire ;  how  little  costlier 
raiment  had  contributed  to  display  her  infantile 
grace  and  beauty. 

Susan  could  hardly  sleep  for  joy  that  night,  and 
Robin  lay  in  a  waking  dream ;  but  Tina's  slumbers 
were  undisturbed  by  the  weight  of  her  fresh  lau- 
rels. 

Richard  the  Third  was  repeated  several  nights  in 
succession.  Tina's  performance  was  an  acknowl- 
edged feature,  which  added  to  the  popularity  of  the 
tragedy.  She  was  always  called  before  the  curtain  ; 
but  Susan  was  too  hopeful  of  the  repetition  of  that 
honor  again  to  substitute  the  red  calico  dress  for  the 
ducal  vestments. 

Even  Mr.  Upton's  heart  was  not  proof  against  the 
child's  witchery  of  manner  ;  she  continued  so  docile, 
was  so  undated  by  adulation. 

Rumor  whispered  in  Mr.  Higgins'  ear  that  other 
theatres  were  about  to  make  Robin  advantageous 
offers.  The  hit  made  by  his  daughter  had  been 
noised  about  London.  The  manager  was  quite 
aware  that  father  and  mother,  as  well  as  their  little 
one,  could  command  much  better  salaries  than  he 
allowed  them,  —  salaries  that  would  place  them  in 
comparatively  easy  circumstances.  Before  these 
whispers  of  preferment  could  reach  Robin,  the 
prompter  was  summoned  to  the  box-office.  Mr. 
Higgins  praised  Tina  in  a  highly  sententious  and 
condescending  manner,  and  then  inquired  whether 
Robin  would  not  like  to  sign  a  contract  for  the 
engagement  of  himself,  his  wife,  and  his  child,  for 
three  years.     The  wily  manager  took  great  care  to 


258    the  prompter's  daughter. 

impress  upon  the  poor  prompter's  mind  that  he  meant 
to  confer  on  him  and  his  needy  family  an  especial 
favor.  As  a  mark  of  his  generosity  he  proposed  to 
raise  Tina's  salary  from  ten  shillings  per  week  to 
fifteen.  Robin's  upright  nature  harbored  no  suspi- 
cions ;  he  thankfully  signed  the  contract,  which, 
already  drawn  up,  lay  upon  the  table. 

On  his  return  home,  he  was  rejoicing  with  Susan 
over  this  increase  in  their  funds,  and  describing  to 
her  Mr.  Higgins'  unusual  suavity  of  manner,  when 
a  letter  was  placed  in  his  hands.  It  contained  an 
offer  for  his  services  and  those  of  Susan  and  Tina, 
at  the  Princess'.  Theatre,  with  a  salary  of  ten  pounds 
per  week!  And  he  had  engaged  with  Higgins  to 
receive  three  pounds  and  a  quarter  weekly,  for  three 
years ! 

Robin  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hands,  after  he  had 
perused  it.  "Higgins  must  have  known  this  !  "  he 
exclaimed.  "He  has  bound  me  by  that  wicked  con- 
tract, and  prevented  my  rendering  you  and  the 
birdie  comfortable,  besides  laying  up  something  for 
a  rainy  day.  He  has  outwitted  me,  and  what  is  to 
be  done  ?  " 

Nothing  could  be  done.  Truehart  was  forced  to 
abide  by  the  contract,  from  which  Higgins,  when  he 
was  told  of  this  more  lucrative  offer,  showed  not  the 
slightest  intention  of  releasing  him. 

King  John  was  the  next  Shakspearian  revival,  and 
it  was  selected  principally  to  give  Tina  an  opportu- 
nity of  appearing  as  Prince  Arthur.  Her  gift  of 
personation  now  revealed  itself  in  a  striking  manner. 
There  was  a  strong  contrast  between  her  piquant, 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     259 

shrewd,  parlous  Duke  of  York,  and  the  tender,  mel- 
ancholy, loving  Prince  Arthur.  The  scene  in  which 
Arthur  pleads  with  Hubert,  when  he  is  commissioned 
to  put  out  the  prince's  eyes,  moved  the  audience  to 
tears.  A  look  of  premature  sorrow  pervaded  the 
whole  mien,  the  weight  of  early  care  betrayed 
itself  in  the  child's  very  step,  when  Arthur  enters, 
and  greets  Hubert  with  a  subdued  "  Good-morrow, 
Hubert." 

"Hubert.     Good-morrow,  little  prince. 

Arthur.     As  little  prince  (having  so  great  a  title 
To  be  more  prince)  as  may  be.    You  are  sad. 

Hubert.     Indeed,  I  have  been  merrier. 

Arthur.  Mercy  on  me  ! 

Methinks  nobody  should  be  sad  but  I : 
Yet  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  France, 
Young  gentlemen  would  be  sad  at  night 
Only  for  wantonness.     By  my  Christendom, 
So  I  were  out  of  prison  and  kept  sheep, 
I  should  be  merry  as  the  day  is  long  ; 
And  so  I  would  be  here,  but  that  I  doubt 
My  uncle  practises  more  harm  to  me  ; 
He  is  afraid  of  me,  and  I  of  him. 
Is  it  my  fault  that  I  am  Geoffrey's  son  ? 
No,  indeed,  is  't  not  ;  and  I  would  to  Heaven 
I  were  your  son,  so  you  would  love  me,  Hubert ! 

Hubert.     If  I  talk  to  him,  with  his  innocent  prate 
He  will  awake  my  mercy,  which  is  dead  ; 
Therefore  I  will  be  sudden  and  desperate.     (Aside.) 

Arthur.    Are  you  sick,  Hubert?    You  look  pale  to-day. 
In  sooth,  I  would  you  were  a  little  sick, 
That  I  might  sit  all  night  and  watch  with  you  : 
I  warrant  I  love  you  more  than  you  do  me. 

Hubert.     His  words  do  take  possession  of  my  bosom  ! 
Read  here,  young  Arthur.     (Showing  a  paper.)     How  now, 
foolish  rheum  (aside), 


260        the   prompter's    daughter. 

Turning  dispiteous  torture  out  of  door  ! 
I  must  be  brief,  lest  resolution  drop 
Out  at  mine  eyes,  in  tender,  womanish  tears. 
Can  you  not  read  it  ?    Is  it  not  fair  writ  ? 

Arthur.    Too  fairly,  Hubert,  for  so  foul  effect : 
Must  you  with  hot  irons  burn  out  both  mine  eyes  ? 

Hubert.     Young  boy,  I  must. 

Arthur.  And  will  you  ? 

Hubert.  And  I  will. 

Arthur.    Have  you  the  heart  ?  When  your  head  did  but  ache, 
I  knit  my  handkerchief  about  your  brows 
(The  best  I  had  —  a  princess  wrought  it  me), 
And  I  did  never  ask  it  you  again. 
And  with  my  hand  at  midnight  held  your  head, 
And,  like  the  watchful  minutes  of  the  hour, 
Still  and  anon  cheered  up  the  heavy  time, 
Saying,  what  lack  you  ?  and  where  lies  your  grief? 
Or,  what  good  love  may  I  perform  you  ? 
Many  a  poor  man's  son  would  have  lain  still, 
And  ne'er  have  spoke  a  loving  word  to  you  ; 
But  you  at  your  sick  service  had  a  prince. 
Nay,  you  may  think  my  love  was  crafty  love, 
And  call  it  cunning  ;  do,  and  if  you  will. 
If  Heaven  be  pleased  that  you  must  use  me  ill, 
Why,  then  you  must.     Will  you  put  out  mine  eyes  ? 
These  eyes,  that  never  did  nor  never  shall 
So  much  as  frown  on  you  ? 

Hubert.  I  have  sworn  to  do  it, 

And  with  hot  irons  must  I  burn  them  out. 

Arthur.     Ah,  none  but  in  this  iron  age  would  do  it ! 
The  iron,  of  itself,  though  heat  red  hot, 
Approaching  near  these  eyes,  would  drink  my  tears, 
And  quench  his  fiery  indignation, 
Even  in  the  matter  of  mine  innocence  ; 
Nay,  after  that,  consume  away  in  rust, 
But  for  containing  fire  to  harm  mine  eye. 
Are  you  more  stubborn  hard  than  hammered  iron  ? 
An'  if  an  angel  should  have  come  to  me, 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     261 

And  told  me  Hubert  should  put  out  mine  eyes, 
I  would  not  have  believed  no  tongue  but  Hubert's. 

Hubert.     Come  forth!     (Stamps.     Enter  attendants,  with 
cord,  iron,  fyc.)     Do  as  I  bid  you  do  ! 

Arthur.     0,  save  me  !  Hubert,  save  me  !     My  eyes  are  out, 
Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men. 

Hubert.     Give  me  the  iron,  I  say,  and  bind  him  here. 

Arthur.     Alas  !  why  need  you  be  so  boist'rous  rough  ? 
I  will  not  struggle,  I  will  stand  stone  still. 
For  Heaven's  sake,  Hubert,  let  me  not  be  bound  ! 
Nay,  hear  me,  Hubert !  drive  these  men  away, 
And  I  will  sit  as  quiet  as  a  lamb  ; 
I  will  not  stir,  nor  wince,  nor  speak  a  word, 
Nor  look  upon  the  iron  angrily. 
Thrust  but  these  men  away,  and  I  '11  forgive  you, 
Whatever  torment  you  do  put  me  to. 

Hubert.     Go,  stand  within  ;  let  me  alone  with  him. 

1  Atten.    I  am  best  pleased  to  be  from  such  a  deed. 

(Exeunt  attendants.) 

Arthur.    Alas  !  I  then  have  chid  away  my  friend ! 
He  hath  a  stern  look,  but  a  gentle  heart ; 
Let  him  come  back,  that  his  compassion  may 
Give  life  to  yours. 

Hubert.  Come,  boy,  prepare  yourself. 

Arthur.     Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Hubert.  None,  but  to  lose  your  eyes. 

Arthur.     0  Heaven  !  that  there  were  but  a  mote  in  yours, 
A  grain,  a  dust,  a  gnat,  a  wandering  hair, 
Any  annoyance  in  that  precious  sense  ! 
Then,  feeling  what  small  things  are  boist'rous  there, 
Your  vile  intent  must  needs  seem  horrible  ! 

Hubert.     Is  this  your  promise?    Go  to, — hold  your  tongue. 

Arthur.     Hubert,  the  utterance  of  a  brace  of  tongues 
Must  needs  want  pleading  for  a  pair  of  eyes. 
Let  me  not  hold  my  tongue  ;  let  me  not,  Hubert ! 
Or,  Hubert,  if  you  will,  cut  out  my  tongue, 
So  I  may  keep  mine  eyes  !     0,  spare  mine  eyes, 
Though  to  no  use  but  still  to  look  on  you  ! 


262    the  prompter's  daughter. 

Lo,  by  my  troth  !  the  instrument  is  cold, 
And  would  not  harm  me  ! 

Hubert.  I  can  heat  it,  boy. 

Arthur.     No,  in  good  sooth  ;  the  fire  is  dead  with  grief, 
Being  create  for  comfort,  to  be  used 
In  undeserved  extremes.     See  else  yourself ; 
There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal  ; 
The  breath  of  Heaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out, 
And  strewed  repentant  ashes  on  his  head. 

Hubert.     But  with  my  breath  I  can  revive  it,  boy. 

Arthur.     And  if  you  do,  you  will  but  make  it  blush 
And  glow  with  shame  of  your  proceedings,  Hubert. 
Nay,  it  perchance  will  sparkle  in  your  eyes  ; 
And,  like  a  dog  that  is  compelled  to  fight, 
Snatch  at  his  master  that  doth  tarre  him  on. 
All  things  that  you  should  use  to  do  me  wrong 
Deny  their  office  ;  only  you  do  lack 
That  mercy  which  fierce  fire  and  iron  extend  — 
Creatures  of  note  for  mercy-lacking  uses. 

Hubert.     Well,  see  to  live  !    I  will  not  touch  thine  eyes 
For  all  the  treasures  that  thine  uncle  owes. 
Yet  am  I  sworn,  and  I  did  purpose,  boy, 
With  this  same  very  iron  to  burn  them  out. 

Arthur.     0,  now  you  look  like  Hubert !    All  this  while 
You  were  disguised. 

Hubert.  Peace  !     No  more  ;  adieu. 

Your  uncle  must  not  know  but  you  are  dead  ; 
I  '11  fill  these  dogged  spies  with  false  reports. 
And,  pretty  child,  sleep  doubtless  and  secure 
That  Hubert,  for  the  wealth  of  all  the  world, 
Will  not  offend  thee. 

Arthur.  0  Heaven  !     I  thank  you,  Hubert." 

The  escaped  prince  next  appears  in  act  fourth, 
scene  third,  upon  a  wall  before  the  castle,  and  speaks 
thus : 

"Arthur.     The  wall  is  high,  and  yet  will  I  leap  down. 
Good  ground,  be  pitiful,  and  hurt  me  not ! 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     263 

There  's  few  or  none  do  know  me  ;  if  they  did, 

This  ship-boy's  semblance  hath  disguised  me  quite. 

I  am  afraid,  and  yet  I  '11  venture  it. 

If  I  get  down  and  do  not  break  my  limbs, 

I  '11  find  a  thousand  shifts  to  get  away  : 

As  good  to  die  and  go  as  die  and  stay  !  " 

He  leaps  down,  and,  after  the  fall,  feebly  groans 
out  the  words : 

V  0  me  !  my  uncle's  spirit  is  in  these  stones  : 
Heaven  take  my  soul,  and  England  keep  my  bones  ! 

(Dies.)" 

The  wall  was  sufficiently  high  to  cause  a  shudder 
when  the  prince  leaped  down.  Dread  that  the 
child  was  in  reality  injured  was  increased  by  the 
pathetic  tone  in  which  the  last  lines  were  delivered. 

Pembroke,  Salisbury,  and  Bigot,  enter  ;  the  body 
of  Arthur  is  not  at  first  perceived ;  then  Pembroke, 
bending  over  the  corse,  gives  utterance  to  that  ex- 
quisite line, 

"  0,  Death,  made  proud  with  pure  and  princely  beauty  !  " 

Hubert  brings  the  glad  tidings  that  Arthur  is  safe, 
and  is  shown  the  boy,  stark  and  dead  upon  the 
ground.     When  accused  of  his  murder,  he  replies, 

*  'T  is  but  an  hour  since  I  left  him  well : 
I  honored  him,  I  loved  him  ;  and  will  weep 
My  date  of  life  out  for  his  sweet  life's  loss." 

The  child  is  borne  out  in  Hubert's  arms,  and  it 
was  not  until  the  close  of  this  protracted  scene  that 
the  anxiety  of  Tina's  parents  was  relieved,  and  they 
found  that  she  had  escaped  injury.  She  was  so 
light  and  supple  that,  by  relaxing  her  limbs  when 


DAUGHTER. 

she  fell,  and  making  no  resistance,  she  might  have 
dropped  from  a  much  more  alarming  height  without 
receiving  a  bruise. 

Her  performance  of  Prince  Arthur  had  made  so 
deep  an  impression  that  the  papers  now  began  to 
trumpet  her  praises. 

Mr.  Upton,  whose  admiration  for  the  child's  dra- 
matic gifts,  and  attraction  to  her  lovable  character, 
had  overcome  his  former  sense  of  professional  envy, 
proposed  the  production  of  William  Tell,  and  Tina's 
appearance  as  Albert.  There  was  a  long  discussion 
at  the  manager's  table.  Tina  could,  doubtless,  enact 
Albert,  and  make  what  the  low  comedian  humorously 
styled  a  "hard  hit,"  a  "  striking  hit ;  "  but  her  ex- 
ceedingly delicate  features,  her  fairy-like  propor- 
tions, were  particularly  unsuited  to  the  bold,  sturdy 
mountain  boy. 

"  We  expect  to  see  a  tall  man  when  Othello  is 
personated,"  suggested  Mr.  Upton  ;  "but  I  believe 
no  one  remembered  Mr.  Kean's  diminutive  stature 
when  he  represented  the  Moor.  His  genius  lifted 
him  up  until  he  looked  grander  than  the  men  of  six 
feet  who  surrounded  him." 

This  argument  was  conclusive  ;  the  play  was  cast, 
and  Tina  commenced  studying  Albert.  The  charac- 
ter inspired  her  with  fresh  delight.  When  the  ap- 
pointed night  came,  Mr.  Upton's  judgment  proved 
correct.  Her  vigorous  step,  the  width  and  decision 
of  her  movements,  the  power  of  her  voice,  the  rustic 
boldness  of  her  bearing,  caused  the  unsuitableness  of 
her  stature  to  be  overlooked.  In  the  opening  scene, 
the  boy  springs  down  the  rocks  at  the  call  of  Emma, 
his  mother.     The  replies  to  her  two  first   queries, 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     265 

though  so  simple,  were  spoken  in  a  tone  of  deep 
reverence,  which  the  child  could  not  have  sim- 
ulated, had  not  her  heart  been  full  of  unaffected 
devoutness. 

"Emma.    Knelt  you  when  you  got  up  to-day  ? 

Albert.    I  did,  and  do  so  every  day. 

Emma.    I  know  you  do  ;  and  think  you,  when  you  kneel, 
To  whom  you  kneel  ? 

Albert.   I  do. 

Emma.   You  have  been  early  up,  when  I,  that  played 
The  sluggard  in  comparison,  am  up 
Full  early  ;  for  the  highest  peaks  alone, 
As  yet,  behold  the  sun.     Now  tell  me  what 
You  ought  to  think  on,  when  you  see  the  sun 
So  shining  on  the  peak. 

Albert.   That  as  the  peak 
Feels  not  the  pleasant  sun,  or  feels  it  least, 
So  they  who  highest  stand  in  fortune's  smile 
Are  gladdened  by  it  least,  or  not  at  all  ! 

Emma.   And  what 's  the  profit  you  should  turn  this  to  ? 

Albert.   Rather  to  place  my  good  in  what  I  have, 
Than  think  it  worthless,  wishing  to  have  more  : 
For  more  is  not  more  happiness  so  oft 
As  less. 

Emma.  I  'm  glad  you  husband  what  you  're  taught. 
That  is  the  lesson  of  content,  my  son  ; 
He  who  finds  which,  has  all  —  who  misses,  nothing." 

Albert's  shooting,  his  desire  to  emulate  the  heroic 
mountaineer  his  father,  his  attention  to  Tell's  in- 
structions concerning  the  use  of  the  bow,  all  these 
interested  the  audience  ;  but  it  was  not  until  the 
second  act,  when  Albert  encounters  Gesler  fainting 
upon  a  rock,  gives  him  to  drink,  and  offers  to  show 
him  the  way  to  Altorf,  that  the  dramatic  abilities  of 
the  child  were  tested. 


266        the   prompter's   daughter. 

"Albert.   You  've  lost  your  way  upon  the  hill  ? 

Gesler.   I  have. 

Albert.   And  whither  would  you  go  ? 

Gesler.   To  Altorf. 

Albert.   I  '11  guide  you  thither. 

Gesler.   You  're  a  child. 

Albert.   I  know 
The  way  :  the  track  I  've  come  is  harder  far 
To  find. 

Gesler.   The  track  you  've  come  !     What  mean  you  ?  Sure 
You  have  not  been  still  further  in  the  mountains  ? 

Albert.   I  've  travelled  from  Mount  Faigel. 

Gesler.   No  one  with  thee  ? 

Albert.   No  one  but  God. 

Gesler.   Do  you  not  fear  these  storms  ? 

Albert.   God 's  in  the  storm. 

Gesler.   And  there  are  torrents,  too, 
That  must  be  crossed. 

Albert.   God  *s  by  the  torrent,  too. 

Gesler.   You  're  but  a  child. 

Albert.   God  will  be  with  a  child. 

Gesler.   You  're  sure  you  know  the  way  ? 

Albert.    'T  is  but  to  keep  • 

The  side  of  yonder  stream. 

Gesler.   But  guide  me  safe, 
I  '11  give  thee  gold. 

Albert.   I  '11  guide  thee  safe  without. 

Gesler.   Here 's  earnest  for  thee.     (Offers  gold.)     Here  — 
I  '11  double  that, 
Yea,  treble  it,  but  let  me  see  the  gate 
Of  Altorf.     Why  do  you  refuse  the  gold  ? 


Take  't. 

Albert. 

No. 

Gesler. 

You  shall. 

Albert. 

I  will  not. 

Gesler. 

Why  ? 

Albert. 

Because 

I  do  not  covet  it  ;   and,  though  I  did, 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     267 

It  would  be  wrong  to  take  it  as  the  price 
Of  doing  one  a  kindness. 

Gesler.   Ha  !  who  taught 
Thee  that? 

Albert.   My  father. 
Gesler.  Does  he  live  in  Altorf  ? 
Albert.   No  ;  in  the  mountains. 
Gesler.  How  !  a  mountaineer  ? 
He  should  become  a  tenant  of  the  city  ; 
He  'd  gain  by  it. 
Albert.  Not  so  much  as  he  might  lose  by  it. 
Gesler.  What  might  he  lose  by  it  ? 
Albert.    Liberty. 
Gesler.   Indeed  ! 
He  also  taught  thee  that  ? 
Albert.  He  did. 
Gesler.   His  name  ? 
Albert.  This  is  the  way  to  Altorf,  sir. 
Gesler.   I  'd  know  thy  father's  name. 
Albert.  The  day  is  wasting  —  we 
Have  far  to  go. 

Gesler.   Thy  father's  name,  I  say? 
Albert.   I  will  not  tell  it  thee. 
Gesler.  Not  tell  it  me  ! 
Why? 

Albert.   You  may  be  an  enemy  of  his. 
Gesler.   May  be  a  friend. 
Albert.  May  be  ;  but  should  you  be 
An  enemy  —  although  I  would  not  tell  you 
My  father's  name,  I  'd  guide  you  safe  to  Altorf. 
Will  you  follow  me  ? 

Gesler.   Ne'er  mind  thy  father's  name  ; 
What  would  it  profit  me  to  know  ?    Thy  hand,  — 
We  are  not  enemies. 

Albert.   I  never  had 
An  enemy. 

Gesler.   Lead  on. 
Albert.  Advance  your  staff 
As  you  descend,  and  fix  it  well.    Come  on. 


268    the  prompter's  daughter. 

Gesler.   What,  must  we  take  that  steep  ? 
Albert.    'T  is  nothing.     Come, 
I  '11  go  before  —  ne'er  fear.     Come  on  —  come  on  ! 

[Exeunt.]" 

Gesler  and  Albert  are  next  seen  at  the  gate  of 
Altorf. 

"Albert.   You  're  at  the  gate  of  Altorf. 

Gesler.   Tarry,  boy. 

Albert.  I  would  be  gone  ;  I  'm  waited  for. 

Gesler.   Come  back : 
Who  waits  for  thee  ?     Come,  tell  me  ;  I  am  rich, 
And  powerful,  and  can  reward. 

Albert.   'Tis  close 
On  evening  ;  I  have  far  to  go.     I  'm  late. 

Gesler.   Stay  ;  I  can  punish,  too. 

Albert.  I  might  have  left  you, 
When  on  the  hill  I  found  you  fainting,  and 
The  mist  around  you  ;  but  I  stopped  and  cheered  you, 
Till  to  yourself  you  came  again.     I  offered 
To  guide  you,  when  you  could  not  find  the  way 
And  I  have  brought  you  to  the  gate  of  Altorf. 

Gesler.   Boy,  do  you  know  me  ? 

Albert.   No. 

Gesler.   Why  fear  you,  then, 
To  trust  me  with  your  father's  name  ?    Speak. 

Albert.   Why 
Do  you  desire  to  know  it  ? 

Gesler.   You  have  served  me, 
And  I  would  thank  him,  if  I  chanced  to  pass 
His  dwelling. 

Albert.    'T  would  not  please  him  that  a  service 
So  trifling  should  be  made  so  much  of. 

Gesler.   Trifling? 
You  saved  my  life. 

Albert.   Then  do  not  question  me, 
But  let  me  go. 

Gesler.  When  I  have  learned  from  thee 
Thy  father's  name.     What,  hoa  ! 


Sentinel.  (Within.)    Who's  there? 

Gesler.   Gesler  ! 

Albert.  Ha!     Gesler.     (The  gate  is  opened.) 

Gesler.    ( To  soldiers.)     Seize  him  !    Wilt  thou  tell  me 
Thy  father's  name  ? 

Albert.  No ! 

Gesler.  I  can  bid  them  cast  thee 

Into  a  dungeon.  —  Wilt  thou  tell  it  now  ? 

Albert.   No! 

Gesler.         I  can  bid  them  strangle  thee.  —  Wilt  tell  it  ? 

Albert.    Never  ! 

Gesler.  Away  with  him  ! 

(Soldiers  take  off  Albert  through  gate.)" 

In  act  third,  William  Tell  has  been  taken  prisoner, 
and  brought  before  Gesler.  Albert  refuses  to  recog- 
nize his  father,  whose  life  he  fears  he  may  endanger. 
Tell,  also,  sentenced  by  the  tyrant  to  die,  will  not 
acknowledge  the  boy,  and  bids  him  farewell  as 
though  he  were  the  child  of  another,  sending  by 
him  a  message  to  his  mother.  But  when  Albert  is 
sentenced  to  death  by  the  inhuman  Gesler,  the  father 
is  overpowered ;  he  yields  to  conquering  nature, 
embraces  his  child,  confessing  that  he  is  a  parent. 
Then  Gesler  offers  him  freedom  if  he  will  shoot 
an  apple  from  his  child's  head ;  risking  that  child's 
life,  or  an  eye,  or  the  mangling  of  his  cheek,  his 
lips,  —  the  lips  his  mother  has  so  often  covered 
with  kisses.  After  a  fierce  mental  struggle,  the 
father  consents.  The  moment  for  the  trial  arrives  ; 
the  arrow  is  aimed  —  faithfully  sped  —  the  boy  is 
safe  —  father  and  son  are  free  ! 

Albert  has  not  many  words  to  utter  during  this 
last  thrilling  scene  ;  but  the  variations  of  the  child's 

23 


2^0     THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER. 

eloquent  countenance,  the  spontaneous  gesticula- 
tions, the  "by-play"  (as  it  is  styled  in  stage  par- 
lance), spoke  more  emphatically  than  language,  filled 
out  the  part  even  more  fully  and  beautifully  than  it 
had  been  conceived  by  the  poet. 

Tina's  graphic  delineation  of  Albert  had  assisted 
Mr.  Upton  in  his  personation  of  Tell,  — he  was  gen- 
erous enough  to  admit  the  fact.  The  instant  the 
green  curtain  had  fallen  between  the  actors  and  the 
audience,  he  turned  to  Susan,  and  said,  "  Ah,  you 
may  well  be  proud  of  her  !  She  will  make  the  first 
actress  of  the  day.  I  never  saw  anything  so  true  to 
nature." 

The  "  call  "  was  now  deafening  all  ears. 

Mr.  Tuttle  advanced  :  u  They  are  calling  you,  Mr. 
Upton  ;  be  so  good  as  not  to  keep  the  audience  wait- 
ing. Miss  Truehart,  don't  go  to  your  room  ;  they 
are  calling  you  also  ;  you  will  go  out  afterwards." 

"No,"  said  Upton,  warmly,  "she  richly  deserves 
the  call !     She  shall  go  on  with  me." 

A  star,  who  is  supposed  to  receive  all  first  honors 
and  never  to  share  them,  to  propose  conducting  be- 
fore the  foot-lights,  in  answer  to  his  own  summons, 
a  child,  one  of  the  stock  company,  the  prompter's 
daughter, — this  was  indeed  an  unprecedented  con- 
descension ! 

The  tragedian  led  Tina  out,  and  the  unusually 
hearty  welcome  of  the  audience  implied  a  recogni- 
tion of  the  courteous  act.  This  would  have  repaid 
him,  had  he  not  been  more  amply  compensated  by 
that  internal  sense  of  delight  which  emanates  from 
the  consciousness  of  having  performed  a  generous 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     271 

deed.  He  found  an  additional  reward  in  the  ex- 
pression of  Robin's  countenance,  as  he  held  back 
the  curtain  for  them  to  make  their  exeunt,  and  said, 
in  a  low,  feeling  tone, 

"  I  thank  you,  sir !     Very  few  sta,7°s  would  have 
done  what  you  have  just  done  !  " 


CHAPTER  V. 

Tina's  Musical  Gift. Mr.  Higgins'  Ideas    of  a    Theatrical 

Establishment. — Tlie  Tempest.  —  Spurious  Edition. — Tina 
"cast"  as  Ariel.  —  Discussion  between  the  Manager  and 
Stage-Manager.  —  Exultation  of  Susan  and  Robin  on  reading 
the  Cast.  —  Excitement  in  the  Theatre.  —  Miss  Mellen's  Sar- 
casm. • —  Night  of  Performance. — The  Prompter's  Nook. — 
Ariel's  Appearance. — Tina's  Delineation. — Fifth  Act  — 
Ariel  Flying.  — Entangled  Wires.  —  A  Mother's  Terror.  — 
.General  Co?ifusion.  —  Frightful  Catastrophe. — Robin's  Pres- 
ence of  Mind. —  The  Rescue.  —  Night  Watchers  in  the  Green- 
Room.  —  Bearing  Tina  Home.  —  Incidents  by  the  Way. — 
The  Child's  Answer  to  her  Father. 

Operatic  melodies  were  as  familiar  to  Tina's  infant 
ears  as  the  cradle  lullaby  to  those  of  ordinary  chil- 
dren. Susan  had  always  taken  part  in  choruses. 
She  possessed  a  sweet  though  not  powerful  voice, 
and  a  very  accurate  ear.  Before  her  child's  lisping 
tongue  could  prattle  fluently,  the  mother  commenced 
instructing  her  in  one  of  the  most  important  branches 
of  her  profession. 

Tina  was  in  her  seventh  year  before  her  musical 
faculties  were  discovered  in  the  theatre.  She  was 
then  required  to  sing  in  a  burlesque.  The  music 
apportioned  to  her  was  a  parody  upon  several  popu- 
lar airs.  The  gush  of  birdlike  melody  that  broke 
from  her  lips  at  rehearsal,  the  clear,  warbled  notes, 
took  all  ears  captive,  and  hushed  every  other  sound. 
Those  within  hearing  could  not  choose  but  mutely 


listen.  Then  her  face  sang;  her  eyes  "shot  out 
vocal  light ; "  her  whole  frame  was  penetrated  and 
thrilled  through  and  through  with  the  spirit  of  mel- 
ody. The  leader  of  the  orchestra  was  in  ecstasies. 
Need  the  effect  upon  the  audience,  at  night,  be  re- 
lated? From  that  time  the  new  songster  carolled 
nightly  to  enchanted  ears. 

Mr.  Higgins  announced  to  his  stage-manager  that 
Shakspeare's  Tempest  would  be  the  next  attraction 
presented  to  the  public.  Let  it  not  be  imagined  that 
this  refined  selection  was  an  evidence  of  Mr.  Hig- 
gins' cultivation  and  taste.  He  was  merely  a  judi- 
cious caterer  for  the  public  amusement ;  he  had  the 
skill  of  feeling  the  pulse  of  his  audiences,  and  dis- 
covering their  requirements.  Of  high  art,  of  the  true 
purposes  and  ennobling  objects  of  the  stage,  he  knew 
nothing.  The  theatre  was  simply  his  means  of  gain- 
ing a  livelihood, — his  workshop,  where  dramas  to 
suit  his  customers  were  provided  and  manufactured, 
and  where  artisans  were  paid  as  charily  as  possible 
for  their  labor.  As  for  the  elevated  or  debasing  tone, 
the  morality  or  immorality,  of  the  plays  presented, 
these  were  not  subjects  upon  which  he  wasted  a 
thought. 

It  so  chanced  that  the  class  of  audience  who  sup- 
ported his  theatre  were  attracted  by  unobjectionable 
plays  ;  such,  therefore,  were  placed  before  them, 
dished  up  by  Mr.  Higgins  as  a  hotel  purveyor  serves 
his  viands,  consulting  merely  the  appetite,  not  the 
health,  of  his  guests.  Had  the  patrons  of  his  estab- 
lishment preferred  plays  of  an  opposite  character, 
Mr.  Higgins,  as  far  as  the  licenser  permitted,  would 


have  surfeited  them  with  the  most  highly-seasoned 
immorality  that  could  be  concocted. 

The  Tempest  was  to  be  produced  from  the  original 
text.  The  reader  may  not  be  aware  of  the  existence 
of  a  stage  version,  in  which  hapless  Will  Shakspeare 
is  unmercifully  mutilated.  The  noble  Prospero  has 
a  spurious  scion  grafted  on  his  stock ;  and  the  peer- 
less Miranda  is  furnished  with  a  sister,  —  an  excres- 
cence as  unresembling  herself  as  Goneril  was  unlike 
Cordelia. 

The  character  of  the  "  dainty  Ariel/ '  the  fi  deli- 
cate sprite/7  belongs,  according  to  stage  convention- 
alities, to  the  singer  of  the  theatre.  That  its  delin- 
eation should  be  intrusted  to  a  child  was  a  novel 
idea ;  yet  such  was  Mr.  Higgins'  proposal  to  his 
stage-manager.  Tina's  great  popularity,  and  the 
spell  of  her  flute-like  music,  induced  Mr.  Higgins  to 
make  this  bold  experiment  —  a  decided  innovation 
on  theatrical  usages. 

Mr.  Tuttle,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  bow  and  say 
"Ay7'  to  every  suggestion  of  his  superior,  now  ven- 
tured to  demur.  He  urged  that  the  singer  of  the 
theatre,  Miss  Mellen,  would  probably  "throw  up" 
her  engagement.  The  part  belonged  to  her  by  right, 
— that  could  be  proved  by  all  precedents  ;  then  the 
music  was  difficult.  Could  Miss  Truehart  master  it 
in  time  ?     Could  she  execute  it  at  all  ? 

Mr.  Tuttle  vehemently  heaped  his  objections  one 
upon  the  other ;  and  Mr.  Higgins  coolly  swept  them 
away,  as  though  they  had  been  a  child's  edifice  of 
cards.  He  was  one  of  those  persons  whom  opposi- 
tion always  renders  inflexible. 

"  Cast  the  piece,  sir,  with  Miss  Truehart  as  Ariel. 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     275 

I  will  arrange  matters  with  Miss  Mellen ;  if  she 
choose  to  throw  up  her  engagement,  so  much  the 
better.  Miss  Truehart  will  more  than  fill  her  place, 
one  of  these  days.  That  child  is  invaluable  to  the 
establishment,  and  I  can  foresee  what  she  is  destined 
to  become." 

And  Tina  was  cast  for  Ariel. 

The  cast  of  plays  is  hung  in  a  glass  frame,  in  a 
conspicuous  part  of  the  green-room.  It  is  the  duty 
of  every  actor  to  inspect  this  cast  daily.  Concerning 
its  preparation  the  members  of  the  company  are  not 
consulted  by  the  stage-manager.  In  all  well-regu- 
lated theatres,  however,  every  actor  is  entitled  to  a 
certain  line  of  business,  and  cannot  be  called  upon 
to  undertake  any  character  which  does  not  belong 
to  the  class  for  which  he  is  engaged. 

Great  was  Susan's  wonder  and  delight,  when, 
glancing  over  the  cast  of  the  Tempest,  she  read 
Tina's  name  as  Ariel !  A  rehearsal  was  called,  to 
take  place  the  next  day.  Away  she  ran  to  the  stage, 
in  hope  that  the  business  of  the  morning  had  not 
yet  commenced,  and  she  could  communicate  the  good 
news  to  her  husband  ;  but  the  first  act  had  that  mo- 
ment begun.  It  is  an  infringement  of  rules  for  any 
person  not  engaged  in  rehearsing  to  cross  the  stage, 
or  address  the  prompter,  or  in  any  way  interfere  with 
his  duty.  Susan  and  Kobin  had  been  accustomed  to 
adhere  strictly  to  all  regulations,  not  merely  from  a 
dread  of  seeing  their  names  inscribed  in  the  awful 
forfeit-book,  which,  in  its  glaring  red  cover,  lay 
threateningly  on  the  stage-manager's  table,  but  be- 
cause obedience  was  a  duty.     A  strict  adherence  to 


276         the    prompter's    daughter. 

duty  in  trifles  rendered  easier  the  fulfilment  of  duty 
in  matters  of  importance. 

Tina  was  not  needed  at  the  theatre  that  morning, 
and  there  was  no  one  near  with  whom  Susan  could 
share  her  delight.  The  happy  mother  could  not 
speed  her  way  home,  and  gladden  the  child  with  the 
good  intelligence,  and  bid  her  commence  studying 
forthwith ;  for  Susan  had  a  small  part  to  rehearse, 
and  could  not  absent  herself.  Soon  she  was  sum- 
moned to  the  stage.  She  delivered  her  few  lines, 
and  had  only  to  play  the  listener  for  some  time, 
Then  the  temptation  became  so  great  that  she  could 
not  forbear  drawing  nearer  to  the  prompt-table  than 
was  customary,  and,  catching  Robin's  eye,  she  whis- 
pered, "  0,  Robin  !  such  good  news  !  " 

Robin  looked  at  her  inquiringly,  and  smiled 
because  she  smiled  ;  but  he  was  too  strict  a  disci- 
plinarian to  induce  her  to  say  any  more. 

At  last  rehearsal  was  over,  and  Susan  could  give 
vent  to  her  pent-up  feelings  of  joy.  She  Caught 
Robin's  arm  as  he  was  gathering  up  his  books  and 
papers. 

"  Robin,  have  you  seen  the  cast  of  the  Tempest  ? 
Tina,  our  Tina,  is  cast  as  Ariel!  " 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  —  Ariel  ?  Wife,  you  are  dream- 
ing.    It  is  Miss  Mellen's  part." 

"It  is  our  Tina's  ;  they  have  cast  it  to  her ! 
Come,  come,  and  see  ! "  and  she  drew  him  to  the 
green-room,  where  several  of  the  company  were  ex- 
amining the  cast.     One  of  them  read  aloud, 

"  Prospero,  Mr.  Olderman. 

"Miranda,  Miss  Lovelace. 

"  Ariel.  Miss  Truehart." 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     2ft 

Robin  and  Susan  waited  not  to  hear  the  possible 
comments.  It  was  true  ;  and,  if  Tina  was  successful 
in  this  character,  as  they  felt  sure  she  would  be, 
they  might  look  forward  to  a  glorious  future  for  her. 
Already  they  began  to  build  castles  in  the  clouds  ; 
they  pictured  her  at  the  topmost  pinnacle  of  her 
profession,  a  star,  released  from  half  the  trammels 
that  render  the  stage  an  existence  of  perpetual 
weariness,  trial,  mortification,  to  underlings  !  More  ; 
they  painted  her,  in  fancy,  independent,  rich,  bid- 
ding adieu  to  the  stage  while  she  was  still  in  the 
bloom  of  womanhood  ;  giving  her  heart  to  one  who 
was  worthy  of  a  woman's  boundless  devotion,  at 
whose  feet  she  would  gladly  cast  her  laurels  down, 
rejoicing,  more  than  she  ever  rejoiced  in  wearing 
them,  to  feel  herself 

« fit 

Beside  an  unambitious  hearth  to  sit 
Domestic  queen  ! " 

Upon  this  vision  of  the  future  their  minds  revelled 
in  a  species  of  mental  intoxication.  Never  had  their 
quiet  natures  been  so  stirred,  so  elated.  When  they 
reached  home,  they  could  scarcely  restrain  them- 
selves from  confiding  to  the  child  all  their  hopes. 
But  Tina's  thoughts  were  quickly  absorbed  by  the 
difficujties  of  the  character.  With  the  perception 
of  an  artist,  she  felt  the  weight  of  the  true  artist's 
responsibility.  A  few  shelves,  suspended  from  the 
wall,  held  her  little  library.  Five  minutes  after  her 
parents  entered  the  room,  she  was  hunting  among 
her  books  for  the  Tempest.  The  rest  of  that  day 
beheld  her  seated  on  a  low  stool  near  the  window, 
her  head  buried  in  her  hands,  and  the  open  book 
24 


21$  THE  PROMPTER^  DAUGHTER. 

upon  her  knees.  She  was  reading  and  re-reading, 
and  pondering  over  Shakspeare's  fine  poetic  crea- 
tion, and  gradually  moulding  a  conception  in  her 
own  mind.  As  to  the  language  of  Ariel,  that  was 
memorized  almost  unconsciously.  High  cultivation 
will  impart  to  the  memory  of  an  actor  a  rapidity 
in  receiving  impressions  which  becomes  a  kind  of 
mental  daguerreotyping. 

Tina  had  no  part  to  enact  that  evening,  and  could 
remain  at  home.  Before  Susan  left  for  the  theatre, 
the  child  begged  her  to  sing  the  airs  which  Ariel 
executes.  Fortunately  Susan  was  familiar  with  all 
of  those  peculiarly  bewitching  and  fantastic  melo- 
dies. 

The  next  morning,  before  the  play  was  rehearsed, 
the  leader  of  the  orchestra  proposed  to  instruct  Miss 
Truehart  in  the  music.  His  report  to  the  manager 
was  that  she  sang  with  such  wonderful  fidelity  and 
expression  it  was  a  delight  to  teach  her.  "  And  what 
will  it  be  to  hear  her  at  night  ?  "  he  added,  enthusi- 
astically. 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Tuttle,"  said  Higgins,  with  a  self- 
congratulating  air,  "  my  judgment  has  proved  some- 
irihat  better  than  yours,  sir." 

Mr.  Tuttle  very  humbly  admitted  the  fact,  assert- 
ing that  it  was  no  wonder,  for  Mr.  Higgins'  judg- 
ment always  was  better  than  that  of  anybody  else, 
and  nobody  was  more  willing  to  admit  this  superi- 
ority than  Mr.  Tuttle  himself. 

All  the  theatre  was  in  a  state  of  excitement  at  the 
expected  performance  ;  for,  in  spite  of  the  jealousies 
which  seem  inseparable  from  the  profession,  true 
genius,  once  recognized,  wins  an  involuntary  rever- 


THE     PROMPTER^     DAUGHTER.  279 

ence.  Envy  gives  place  to  a  species  of  characteristic 
generosity,  and  actors  are  magnetically  attracted 
towards  an  individual  whose  talent  surpasses  their 
own. 

Even  Miss  Mellen  came  to  the  wing  to  hear  Tina 
sing  at  rehearsal,  and  found  no  fault  except  that 
which  was  contained  in  the  remark  : 

"  Shakspeare's  Ariel  was  not  a  child  ;  that 's  what 
makes  it  ridiculous." 

11  Ariel  was  a  sprite,  a  spirit,"  retorted  one  of 
Tina's  warm  admirers  ;  "  and,  I  suppose,  as  none  of 
us  ever  saw  a  sprite  or  a  spirit  either,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  give  any  authority  for  its  not  being  per- 
sonated by  a  wonderfully-gifted  child." 

A  week  elapsed,  during  which  the  Tempest  was 
rehearsed  daily.  Then  came  the  appointed  night  for 
its  performance.  The  fair,  fragile  child,  in  her  gos- 
samer robe,  looped  here  and  there  with  sprays  of 
bright  sea-weed  ;  with  her  shining,  filmy  wings  :  her 
floating  hair  interwound  with  branches  of  white  and 
scarlet  coral :  her  girdle  and  bracelets  of  shells : 
looked  the  island  sprite  indeed, —  a  being  scarce 
earthly  ! 

Robin  had  not  seen  her  Ariel  attire,  for  the  piece 
was  one  that  required  the  closest  attention,  and 
tasked  all  his  powers. 

The  prompter's  seat  was  a  sort  of  nook  on  the 
right  of  the  stage,  close  to  the  audience.  It  is 
worth  describing.  A  high  desk  with  a  tall  stool. 
On  one  side,  five  leathern  pockets,  marked  "letters Tor 
Act  1st ;  "  "  for  Act  2d ;  "  "  for  Act  3d  ;  "  "  for  Act 
4th  ; "  "  for  Act  5th."  A  sixth  pocket,  with  marriage 
contracts,  parchment  wills,  and  various  legal  docu- 


280   the  prompter's  daughter. 

merits.  Near  the  desk  are  fixtures  for  turning  off  gas 
to  darken  the  stage,  or  turning  it  on  to  increase  the 
light.  A  speaking-trumpet,  through  which  the 
prompter  directs  the  musicians.  A  little  bell,  the 
wire  of  which  runs  upward  into  the  "flies/'  and 
gives  notice  to  elevate  or  lower  the  curtain.  A 
second  bell,  for  the  descent  of  golden  cars  from  which 
mythological  personages  alight  upon  the  stage,  or 
for  the  lowering  of  rose-tinted  clouds,  where  Cupids 
and  other  visionary  beings  make  their  appearance. 
Then  there  is  a  peep-hole  through  which  the  prompt- 
er has  a  view  of  the  stage,  and  can  watch  the  actors. 
A  second  peep-hole  (not  legitimate),  by  means  of 
which  he  can  get  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  audience. 
Here  sat  Robin,  in  the  midst  of  these  stage  appli- 
ances, anxiously  waiting  until  the  moment  came 
when  Tina  half  bounded,  half  glided  on  the  stage, 
exclaiming  to  Prospero : 

"  All  hail,  great  master  !  grave  sir,  hail  !  I  come 
To  answer  thy  best  pleasure  ;  be  't  to  fly, 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curled  clouds  ;  to  thy  strong  bidding  task 
Ariel,  and  all  his  quality." 

Her  appearance  evoked  a  tremendous  burst  from 
the  audience,  which  reverberated  loudly  and  long. 
It  would  be  useless  to  attempt  to  describe  the  quaint, 
original,  inimitable  acting. 

After  the  scene  with  Prospero,  Ariel  next  appears 
luring  in  Ferdinand,  to  whose  eyes  the  spirit  is  sup- 
posed to  be  invisible.  Ariel  is  playing  on  a  lyre- 
like instrument,  and  sings  : 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     281 

"  Come  unto  the  yellow  sands, 
And  then  take  hands  ; 
Curtseyed  when  you  have  and  kissed 
(The  wild  waves  whist) , 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there  ; 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 
Bur.  Hark,  hark  ! 

Bough,  wough. 
The  watch-dogs  bark : 
Hark,  hark  !    I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  Chanticleer 
Cry  cock-a-doodle-doo !  '^^ 

The  very  first  notes,  ringing  with  silvery  clearness 
from  her  lips,  brought  the  actors  from  the  green-room 
to  cluster  around  the  wings.  At  the  close  of  the 
air,  not  a  few  of  their  hands  spontaneously  joined  in 
the  rapturous  applause  of  the  audience.  As  the 
melody  ceases,  Ferdinand  says,  in  a  tone  of  Wonder  : 

"  Where  should  this  music  be?  —  V  the  air,  i'  the  earth? 
It  sounds  no  more,  and  sure  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  of  the  island.     Sitting  on  a  bank, 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wreck, 
This  music  crept  by  me  on  the  waters, 
Allaying  both  their  fury  and  my  passion, 
With  its  sweet  air  ;  thence  I  have  followed  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me,  rather  —  but  't  is  gone. 
No,  it  begins  again  ! 

Ariel  sings. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies  ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made. 

Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  ; 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 

But  doth  suffer  a  sea  change 

Into  something  rich  and  strange. 

Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell  — 

Hark  !  now  I  hear  them  —  ding,  dong,  dell ! 
(Burden.  Ding,  dong,  dell  !)" 


282    the  prompter's  daughter. 

We  cannot  follow  the  performance  step  by  step, 
but  hasten  to  the  more  important  close. 

It  is  usual  for  Ariel  to  appear  flying  across  the 
stage.  This  flying  process  is  generally  performed 
by  a  double,  costumed  closely  to  resemble  the  true 
Ariel.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  have  found  a 
child  that  so  nearly  resembled  Tina  as  to  deceive 
the  audience ;  and  to  destroy  an  illusion  is  to 
rob  any  play,  especially  one  highly  poetical,  of  a 
powerful  charm.  It  was  therefore  arranged  that  she 
should  execute  the  feat  herself,  but  not  until  the 
close  of  the  fifth  act,  when  Prospero  gives  Ariel  his 
liberty. 

To  produce  the  appearance  of  flying,  wires,  invis- 
ible to  the  spectators,  are  attached  by  means  of 
hooks  and  a  strong  band  to  the  shoulders  and  waist 
of  Ariel.  The  child  first  mounts  a  high  platform  on 
the  right  of  the  stage,  behind  the  scenes  ;  by  the  aid 
of  pulleys,  she  is  then  drawn  along  the  wires,  but 
apparently  floated  through  the  air.  In  this  manner 
she  traverses  the  whole  length  of  the  stage.  As  she 
passes  out  of  sight  of  the  audience  on  the  left  hand, 
the  wires  are  gently  lowered  until  her  feet  touch  the 
ground.  The  sensation  experienced  is  singular,  and 
rather  terrifying ;  but  the  child  of  genius  was  to6 
much  absorbed  in  her  part  to  be  susceptible  of  fear. 

The  fifth  act  commenced.  Tina  had  thrown  around 
the  audience  her  most  potent  spells,  singing, 

"  Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly, 
After  summer,  merrily  ; 


THE     PROMPTER'S     DAUGHTER.  283 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough." 

Twice  more  Ariel  appears  for  a  few  moments ; 
once  with  the  Master  and  Boatswain  amazingly  fol- 
lowing, and  then  driving  in  Caliban,  Stephano,  and 
Trinculo.  The  faithful  sprite  then  receives  the  prom- 
ised boon  of  liberty  from  Prospero.  There  is  a  slight 
transposition  of  the  original  passages  to  give  the  per- 
former a  few  moments  to  prepare  for  her  aerial  trav- 
elling. The  time  allowed  is  very  short.  After  her 
exit,  Tina  bounded  up  the  ladder,  closely  followed 
by  her  watchful  mother.  Susan  had  never  felt 
prouder,  more  exulting,  more  hopeful,  in  her  life. 
Alas  for  such  moments  in  the  human  heart !  Mr. 
Gildersleaf  was  standing  on  the  platform.  He  care- 
fully adjusted  the  wires  to  Tina's  waist  and  shoulders, 
and  tested  their  strength  ;  then  gave  a  signal  to  the 
carpenters  above.  The  pulleys  were  drawn  —  Ariel 
appeared  before  the  audience  in  mid  air !  The  wav- 
ing of  those  graceful  arms  moved  the  light  wings, 
while  the  ransomed  spirit  smiled  farewell  to  the  group 
upon  the  stage.  How  the  people  cheered !  Many- 
rose  from  their  seats  and  leaned  forward  ;  the  delu- 
sion was  so  perfect  it  seemed  as  though  she  must  be 
winging  her  flight  through  the  atmosphere  without 
support.  The  floating  form  was  almost  out  of  sight, 
when  suddenly  it  stopped.  The  arms  were  still 
waved,  and  the  light  wings  responded,  but  the  figure 
remained  immovable.  The  wires  in  some  inexplica- 
ble manner  had  become  entangled,  the  pulleys  re- 
fused to  work  ;  the  child  —  Heaven  guard  her !  she 


284    the  prompter's  daughter. 

was  suspended  immediately  over  one  of  the  side- 
lights used  to  illumine  the  back  portion  of  the  stage ! 

A  heart-rending  shriek,  that  pierced  every  ear, 
burst  from  Susan's  lips,  and  gave  the  first  announce- 
ment of  the  impending  danger.  Regardless  of  the 
audience,  she  dashed  frantically  across  the  stage, 
crying,  "Cut  the  wires!  my  child,  my  child !  she 
will  be  burned  to  death !  " 

Beneath  the  spot  where  hung  the  child  she  fell 
upon  her  knees,  flinging  up  her  despairing  arms,  and 
uttering  cry  after  cry,  which  broke  out  from  the  very 
depths  of  her  tortured  soul. 

All  was  confusion.  Numbers  of  the  audience 
leaped  upon  the  stage,  which  was  now  thronged  with 
actors  ;  the  carpenters,  apparently  paralyzed  with 
fear,  vainly  strove  to  make  the  pulleys  do  their  duty. 

Mr.  Higgins  ran  from  the  box-keeper's  office,  ex- 
claiming, "  Save  her  !  that  child  is  the  most  valuable 
person  in  my  establishment !  A  reward  for  the  man 
that  saves  her !     Save  her  for  my  sake  —  save  her !  " 

Not  for  the  poor  child's  sake,  not  for  the  sake  of 
her  agonized  parents,  but  because  she  was  of  value 
to  him,  the  sordid  man  offered  a  reward  that  her  life 
might  be  saved.  As  if  humanity  contained  a  mon- 
ster that  would  save  her  for  a  reward  who  could  have 
saved  her  and  did  not  without! 

Thus  far  Tina,  with  wonderful  heroism,  had  re- 
mained in  a  state  of  stony  quietude,  though  perfectly 
conscious  of  her  danger.  But  now  the  intense  pain 
of  her  scorching  feet,  every  moment  increasing,  drew 
from  her  the  most  piteous  wails. 

And  where  was  Robin  ?  The  only  person  present 
who  retained  anything  like  presence  of  mind,  he  had 


THE     PROMPTER'S     DAUGHTER.  285 

rushed  to  the  property-room,  snatched  a  hatchet, 
seized  the  ladder  on  the  right  of  the  stage,  dashed 
down  the  platform  which  it  supported,  and,  with  a 
strength  imparted  by  terror,  the  usually  feeble  crip- 
ple was  seen  bearing  the  heavy  ladder  across  the 
stage  as  powerfully  as  though  it  were  held  in  a 
Titanic  grasp.  He  placed  it  beside  his  child,  mounted 
as  lightning  flashes,  severed  the  wires  with  strong 
blows  of  the  hatchet,  and  caught  the  child  in  his 
arms  just  as  her  gauzy  raiment  became  one  sheet  of 
flame.  Fortunately,  he  had  not  loosed  from  his  neck 
the  cloak  which  he  always  wore  at  night,  to  protect 
him  against  the  draughts  that  whistled  around  his 
exposed  seat.  The  child  was  quickly  enveloped  in 
its  ample  folds,  and  the  flames  extinguished.* 

There  was  a  physician  among  the  crowd  of  people 
who,  in  the  hope  of  rendering  assistance,  had  gath- 
ered upon  the  stage.  Accompanied  by  him,  Tina 
was  borne  to  the  green-room  —  but,  0  !  what  a  spec- 
tacle for  her  mother's  eyes !  Her  tiny  silver  slip- 
pers were  literally  burned  from  her  feet,  and  a  large 
portion  of  the  silk  stockinet  which  encased  her  limbs 
was  also  consumed,  and  showed  how  the  flames  had 
fed  on  her  delicate  flesh. 

Excruciating  were  the  little  girl's  sufferings  while 
the  stockinet  was  gradually  removed,  yet  less  terri- 
ble than  those  of  her  parents.  Susan  would  not 
yield  up  her  child  to  other  hands,  though  her  own 

*  The  idea  naturally  suggests  itself  that  this  accident  might  have 
been  prevented  by  the  immediate  turning  off  of  the  gas  ;  but  the 
incident  took  place  as  related,  and  not  one  person  in  a  crowded 
theatre  remembered  that  the  child  could  be  saved  by  this  simple 
process. 


286         the    prompter's   dhughter. 

shook  violently  as  they  performed  the  trying  offices. 
Tina,  ever  thoughtful  of  her  mother,  in  spite  of  the 
torturing  pain  uttered  not  a  single  cry,  and  only 
now  and  then  an  irrepressible  moan  escaped  her  lips. 
The  oil  with  which  the  burns  were  immediately 
bathed  produced  a  soothing  effect,  and  her  mangled 
limbs  were  now  covered  with  raw  cotton,  and  ten- 
derly bound  up.  She  lay  upon  a  small  sofa,  from 
which  it  was  found  impossible  to  remove  her  without 
danger.  Dr.  Welldon  ordered  her  to  remain  undis- 
turbed that  night. 

With  what  altered  feelings  Susan  and  Robin  sat 
down  to  watch  beside  her  !  Their  exulting  pride 
had  suddenly  been  changed  almost  to  despair.  Yet 
were  their  hearts  full  of  thankfulness  that  the  child's 
life  had  been  spared.  But  the  shock  to  her  constitu- 
tion must  be  so  great,  those  burns  were  so  terrible, 
might  she  not  yet  die  ?  Neither  dared  ask  that 
question,  but  it  shone  in  the  eyes  of  both  when  they 
looked  into  each  other's  faces  for  comfort. 

After  pity,  curiosity,  and  interest,  had  all  been 
satisfied,  the  green-room  was  gradually  deserted, 
save  by  Susan  and  Robin.  They  sat  together,  hand 
clasped  in  hand,  the  whole  of  that  long,  fearful  night, 
watching  their  child.  An  opiate  had  caused  a  half- 
sleep,  but  pain  did  not  seem  wholly  lulled.  She  lay 
with  her  eyes  partly  open,  for  their  shining  blue 
glittered  through  the  long  lashes  ;  her  breath  was 
labored,  and  now  and  then  she  flung  her  arms  from 
side  to  side,  and  feebly  groaned. 

The  kind  physician  returned  soon  after  daylight, 
and  ordered  the  little  sufferer  to  be  carried  upon 
the   sofa   to   her  home.      Mr.   Gildersleaf  and   one 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     28T 

of  the  carpenters,  who  had  remained  in  the  theatre 
all  night,  would  have  borne  her  ;  but  the  poor  hunch- 
back insisted  that  he  himself  must  aid.  Tina  was 
covered  with  shawls  ;  —  the  father  took  the  head  of 
the  couch,  and  the  sympathizing  "  property-man " 
the  foot,  and  they  set  out.  Susan  walked  by  the 
side  of  her  child.  The  carpenter  followed,  for  he 
well  knew  that  Robin's  strength  would  give  way. 
It  was  too  early  in  the  morning  to  meet  any  but 
a  few  stragglers,  and  these  paused  in  surprise  and 
pity,  and  some  asked  questions  of  the  carpenter. 
One  woman  said  to  another,  as  they  passed,  "  That 's 
the  poor  little  lamb  who  was  nearly  burned  to  death 
last  night.  She  looks  as  white  as  if  she  were  dying 
now." 

What  words  for  the  mother's  ears  ! 

Robin  heard  them  also  ;  they  curdled  his  blood,  and 
took  from  his  limbs  their  little  remaining  strength. 

"  Set  her  down,  Gildersleaf !  I  can't  —  I  can't  take 
another  step  ! " 

They  set  down  the  sofa.  Tina  was  now  quite  con- 
scious ;  the  fresh  morning  air  had  revived  her.  She 
opened  her  eyes,  and  said,  in  a  faint  tone,  u  I  am 
better,  father ;  I'm  so  glad  you  're  taking  me 
home  !  " 

The  carpenter  now  occupied  Robin's  place,  and 
Robin  walked  beside  Susan,  who  sorely  needed  his 
support.  As  she  clung  to  his  arm,  she  whispered, 
"  That  woman  said  she  was  so  white,  that  —  that  — 
but  she  's  always  white,  Robin,  dear  ;  you  know  she  's 
so  fair  !     She  's  not  whiter  than  usual,  is  she  ?  " 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  at  the  door  of  their 
humble  lodgings.     The  sofa  was  carried  up  that  nar- 


288    the  prompter's  daughter. 

row  stair  with  some  difficulty,  and  at  last  the  prompt- 
er's family  were  once  more  in  their  own  neat  but 
poverty-betokening  room.  Tina  uttered  no  groan  as 
her  father  lifted  her  up  and  laid  her  tenderly  on  the 
bed,  though  every  movement  rendered  her  sufferings 
more  acute. 

"Ah,  my  birdie!  my  birdie!  this  is  a  terrible 
blow  to*  fall  on  you  !  "  said  the  anguished  parent. 

"  Father,"  she  whispered,  u  did  you  not  tell  me 
good  comes  out  of  every  affliction  which  we  bear 
patiently?  I  mean  to  be  patient;  0,  so  patient,  if 
you  and  mother  will  help  me!" 

"  We  will  help  you,  my  own  birdie!  We  will  all 
be  patient,  and  the  Lord  will  not  take  thee,  our  only 
treasure,  away  from  us  !     No,  he  will  not !  " 

"  Not  —  not  unless  it  be  for  your  best  good  and 
for  mine,  father  !  "  replied  the  child. 

The  poor  prompter  bowed  his  head.  They  were 
his  own  teachings,  —  could  he  rebel  ? 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  Mother's  Vigils.  —  Mr.  Higgins'  Rule  concerning  Invalids. 
—  Sympathy  of  the  Charitable.  —  Visit  of  the  Sunday-school 
Teacher.  —  The  Mother's  Pang  of  Jealousy. — Reticence. — 
Convalescence.  —  Susan's  Return  to  the  Theatre.  —  First 
Glance  at  the  Place  of  Peril.  —  Tina  at  Kew  Gardens.  —  The 
Child's  First  Recognition  of  Nature.  —  A  Relapse.  —  The 
Hunchback's  Fears  for  his  Wife.  —  Two  Minds  in  One.  — 
The  Seasons  of  Love. 

When  Dr.  Welldon  visited  Robin  Truehart's 
humble  lodgings  that  day,  he  found  Tina  in  a  heavy 
sleep  ;  but  her  sharp,  quick  breathing,  'the  crimson 
spot  on  either  cheek,  betokened  the  presence  of  high 
fever.  The  doctor's  whispered  inquiries  and  his 
light  touch  upon  her  throbbing  pulse  aroused  her. 
She  opened  wide  her  large  eyes,  now  shining  with 
unusual  lustre,  but  they  looked  vacantly  around. 
Her  mother  bent  tenderly  over  her,  but  no  answer 
came  to  her  anxious  questions.  Then  suddenly  the 
child  raised  herself  on  her  pillows,  and  broke  out  in 
song.  The  liquid  notes  rang  through  the  chamber, 
as  she  warbled, 

"  Where  the  bee  sucks  there  suck  I ; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  !  " 

Susan  no  longer  wept  or  trembled.  Her  bending, 
reed-like  nature  rose  up  strong  and  firm  under  the 
heavy  pressure  of  this  trial.    Her  tears  were  petrified 


by  the  greatness  of  her  affliction.  With  an  unfalter- 
ing step  she  followed  the  physician  from  the  cham- 
ber. 

"  Doctor,  will  she  live?  will  my  child  live?"  was 
all  she  said,  and  the  words  were  uttered  in  a  calm 
tone. 

"I  trust  so/'  was  his  evasive  answer.  The 
mother's  fear-quickened  perception  construed  the 
reply  aright. 

At  that  moment  the  child's  voice  again  struck  on 
her  ear, 

"  Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough, 
That  hangs  on  the  bough,  that  hangs  on  the  bough  !  " 

sang  Tina.  The  day  before  Susan  would  have 
thought  it  impossible  that  she  could  shudder  at  the 
sound  of  that  delicious  melody.  She  returned  to  the 
bed-side  of  the  child,  who  now  sank  back  oppressed 
with  sleep,  now  started  up,  murmuring  snatches  of 
Ariel's  song  — 

"  Ding,  dong,  dell !  —  ding,  dong,  dell !  " 

She  repeated  that  burden,  the  knell  sang  by  the 
sea-nymphs,  over  and  over,  until  Susan  at  last  felt 
as  though  the  whole  universe  were  filled  with  that 
one  haunting  sound,  that  melodious  knell.  She 
heard  it  when  the  child's  lips  were  mute  ;  night  and 
day  it  echoed  in  her  ears,  and  drowned  all  other 
tones. 

The  accident  occurred  on  Monday,  and  through 
that  long  week  Robin  had  to  fulfil  his  duties  at  the 
theatre  as  usual.     Susan  kept  her  sleepless  vigils 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     291 

beside  the  couch  of  the  child.  Her  engagement  was, 
of  course,  relinquished  ;  with  it  her  salary  and  Tina's. 
It  was  Mr.  Higgins'  rule  not  to  pay  salaries  to  actors 
who  were  indisposed  or  disabled.  If  he  were  to  do 
that,  he  argued,  his  company  would  always  be  dan- 
gerously ill — he  would  keep  a  hospital,  not  a  theatre. 
It  is  true  that  Tina  had  so  won  her  way  into  some 
accessible  corner  of  his  cold  heart  that  he  experienced 
a  strong  desire  to  make  her  a  solitary  exception  to 
this  stern  law.  It  was  not  without  a  secret  pang 
that  he  decided  against  the  act  of  liberality,  as  injuri- 
ous to  his  theatrical  discipline.  But  he  quieted  his 
conscience  by  sending  the  mother  a  message  of  con- 
dolence, accompanied  by  a  guinea. 

With  this  diminution  of  their  weekly  salary,  and 
the  great  increase  of  expenses  consequent  on  Tina's 
illness,  the  situation  of  the  Trueharts  would  have 
been  one  of  fearful  privation,  but  for  the  beneficence 
of  strangers  who  were  interested  in  the  child's  public 
career.  Not  a  few  noble  ladies  despatched  their 
maids  or  footmen  to  Robin  Truehart's  dwelling  with 
messages  of  sympathy,  money,  dainties  for  the 
sick,  fine  linen  for  the  dressing  of  the  little  girl's 
burns,  &c.  &c.  One  thoughtful  lady  furnished  Tina 
with  a  small  elastic  bed,  —  an  especial  comfort  to  the 
suffering  child.  Tina  had  been  accustomed  to  share 
the  couch  of  her  parents  ;  and  so  great  was  their  fear 
of  disturbing  her,  that  until  this  welcome  gift  arrived 
neither  father  nor  mother,  since  the  night  of  that 
fatal  accident,  had  lain  down.  A  few  benevolent 
ladies,  not  content  with  intrusting  the  mission  of 
charity  to  their  domestics,  called  themselves  ;  but 
these  visits  were  a  tax  upon  Susan's  patience,  rather 


292   the  prompter's  daughter. 

than  a  consolation  to  her.  It  distressed  her  to 
answer  the  numerous  queries  of  curiosity  or  kind- 
ness. She  needed  all  her  thoughts,  all  her  time,  for 
her  child.  The  members  of  the  company  were  not 
behindhand  in  their  warmly-tendered  sympathy,  their 
proffers  of  assistance  in  ministering  to  the  youthful 
patient ;  but  Susan  "would  not  allow  any  one  to 
share  her  maternal  duties  ;  she  could  not  bear  her 
child  to  receive  a  cup  of  water  from  the  hand  of 
another. 

In  a  few  days  the  fever  abated,  and  Tina's  con- 
sciousness returned.  Though  she  was  too  feeble  to 
speak,  the  grateful  smile  which  repaid  every  office 
of  love  brought  sunshine  back  to  her  mother's  heart. 
Meantime  Miss  Amory  learned  from  the  public 
journals  that  her  favorite  pupil's  life  had  been  in  dan- 
ger. At  first  she  hesitated  about  visiting  the  lodg- 
ings of  a  poor  actress,  one  of  that  class  she  had 
been  taught  to  contemn  ;  but  true  charity  conquered 
the  scruples  of  an  unworthy  prejudice.  As  she 
opened  the  door  of  the  little  apartment,  Tina  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  delight,  and  stretched  out  her 
arms  towards  her  young  preceptress. 

"  0  !  I  knew  you  would  come  ! "  she  feebly  mur- 
mured. w  Miss  Lucy,  that  is  my  dear  mother  ;  and," 
she  added,  in  a  whisper,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears 
as  she  recalled  the  scene  at  Sunday-school,.  "  she  's 
not  '  shocking,'  but  good  —  heavenly  good  !  " 

Miss  Amory  greeted  Susan  cordially,  and  told  her 
that  she  had  come  to  assist  in  tending  the  beloved 
little  invalid. 

Susan  could  not  decline  her  services,  for  she  knew 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     293 

that  they  would  be  welcome  to  the  child ;  but  a 
jealous  pang  shot  through  her  heart. 

"  You  look  very  much  worn  out,  Mrs.  Truehart," 
remarked  the  young  girl,  in  a  tone  of  sympathy. 

"Do  not  think  of  me,"  answered  Susan;  "now 
that  I  dare  to  hope  my  child  will  recover,  I  shall 
have  all  the  strength  I  need." 

From  that  time  Miss  Amory  came  daily,  and  spent 
many  hours  with  her  former  pupil.  The  kind-hearted 
girl  read  to  her,  conversed  with  her,  amused  her. 
Susan  sat  silently  by.  It  was  not  easy  for  her  to 
talk  to  strangers  at  any  time  ;  but  now  she  shrank 
more  than  ever  within  herself.  She  remembered 
Miss  Amory's  prejudices  against  the  stage,  but  had 
not  sufficient  strength  of  character  to  enable  her  to 
combat  them.  In  the  most  distant  corner  of  the 
room,  half  concealed  by  a  friendly  window-curtain, 
sat  the  mother,  hiding  her  emotions  when  she  found 
her  place  occupied  by  another.  Through  those  long 
daily  visits  she  chid  her  own  heart  for  its  discontent, 
and  repeated  internally,  over  and  over  again,  "  My 
child  is  happier  when  Miss  Lucy  comes  ;  what  mat- 
ter for  me.?" 

At  the  end  of  a  month  Tina  was  pronounced  out 
of  danger  ;  but  it  was  obvious  that  some  time  must 
elapse  before  she  could  resume  her  profession. 
The  liberal  donations  now  ceased  ;  those  formerly 
received  had  been  expended.  Robin's  family  had 
only  his  small  salary  to  depend  upon.  This  could 
not  meet  the  weekly  outlay.  Susan  found  herself 
unable  to  purchase  the  expensive  medicines  ordered 
by  the  physician.  From  that  moment  she  said  men- 
tally, "I  must  to  work  again.  0,  what  a  heavy 
25 


294        the    prompter's    daughter. 

heart  I  shall  carry  to  the  theatre  !  But  I  must  work 
that  my  little  one  may  not  want ! f> 

Mrs.  Gildersleaf  offered  to  watch  beside  Tina  dur- 
ing her  mother's  absence.  The  good  landlady's 
presence  was  seldom  needed,  for  Miss  Amory  came 
regularly  at  the  hour  for  rehearsal,  and  remained 
until  Susan's  return.  In  the  evening,  before  the 
latter  left  for  the  theatre,  Miss  Lucy  was  again  at 
her  post. 

The  first  morning  that  Susan  reentered  the  theatre, 
when  she  stood  upon  the  stage,  and  cast  her  eyes  up 
to  the  spot  where  Tina  had  been  suspended  almost 
in  the  embrace  of  death,  her  blood  suddenly  con- 
gealed, her  pulses  ceased  to  beat,  the  place  swam 
and  then  grew  dark  ;  she  tried  to  take  a  step  towards 
Robin,  but  fell  senseless  on  the  ground.  She  had 
fainted,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

When  consciousness  returned,  she  found  herself 
lying  on  the  green-room  sofa  (the  same  sofa  on  which 
Tina  had  been  conveyed  to  her  lodgings).  Robin 
supported  her  head,  and  a  crowd  of  actors  and 
actresses  were  kindly  ministering  to  her. 

"  Ah  !  Sue,  I  felt  just  the  same  when  I  looked  up 
to  that  fatal  place.  But  cheer  up,  wife,  for  our 
birdie  is  spared  to  us,"  whispered  her  husband. 

And  Susan  was  comforted,  and  in  a  short  time 
declared  herself  able  to  return  to  the  stage.  Robin 
seated  her  on  a  chair  by  one  of  the  wings,  and 
returned  to  his  station  at  the  prompter's  table.  In- 
advertently he  had  chosen  the  very  spot  where  she 
sat  watching  the  rehearsal  of  Pizarro  when  Tina 
first  enacted  Cora's  child.  How  well  she  remem- 
bered that  day,  and  her  own  terror  at  the  compara- 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     295 

tively  slight  peril  in  which  her  child  was  then 
placed  !  She  thanked  Heaven  that  the  veil  of  the 
future  had  not  been  lifted,  and  that  no  presage  of  a 
more  terrible  evil  had  entered  her  soul.  The  call- 
boy's  summons  aroused  her  from  her  revery,  and, 
with  a  slow,  staggering  step,  she  "  walked  through  " 
her  trifling  part. 

Another  month  passed,  and  still  another ;  and,  at 
the  end  of  the  third  month,  Tina  once  more  breathed 
the  fresh  air,  and  beheld  the  blue  sky.  At  her  young 
teacher's  invitation,  she  was  conveyed  in  an  easy 
carriage  to  Kew  Gardens.  Little  knew  the  poor 
child-actress  of  the  wondrous  beauties  of  nature. 
She  had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  paradise  as  these 
gardens  revealed  to  her.  The  memorable  mammoth 
grape-vine,  the  extensive  conservatories,  the  pictur- 
esque shrubberies,  the  magnificent  old  trees,  the 
profusion  of  gorgeous  flowers, —  all  these  were  a 
marvel.  The  flowers  to  which  her  young  eyes  had 
been  too  well  accustomed  were  fabricated  of  bright 
tissue-paper  or  colored  cambric  ;  the  '?■  cut  woods  " 
were  manufactured  of  canvas  bedaubed  with  impos- 
sible trees  ;  the  stage  groves  and  gardens  she  had 
nightly  moved  among  were  things  of  paint,  and 
glare,  and  gaudiness.  She  saluted  nature  with  a 
burst  of  joyous  greeting,  a  loving  recognition, 
though  nature  had  heretofore  been  known  only 
through  a  rudely-painted  image.  The  child  almost 
flew  about,  drinking  in  the  balmy  air,  basking  in  the 
sunshine,  kissing  the  flowers  which  she  was  not  per- 
mitted to  pluck,  now  lifting  up  her  arms  and  her 
sweet  face  in  mute  wonder,  her  ecstasy  now  gushing 
forth  in  song.     Her  long-lost  buoyancy  of  spirit,  for 


296   the  prompter's  daughter. 

the.  moment  restored,  vented  itself  in  music.  It  was 
only  a  short  period  since  she  had  been  able  to  walk 
again,  and  generally  the  effort  of  taking  a  few  steps 
caused  her  pain.  But  she  was  conscious  of  neither 
weakness  nor  suffering  as  she  darted  about  over  the 
lawn,  until  the  buttercups  had  showered  her  feet 
with  yellow  dust,  and  she  bade  Miss  Amory  look  at 
the  golden  slippers  the  flowers  had  given  her. 

At  last  she  grew  weary  from  the  unwonted  exer- 
cise, and  lay  down,  with  her  head  resting  on  Miss 
Lucy's  lap,  beneath  the  shade  of  a  branching  oak, 
catching  glimpses  of  the  sky  through  the  wind- 
shaken  foliage,  and  singing  without  pause, —  singing 
as  the  birds  sing,  from  that  gleefulness  within  which 
turns  to  melody. 

After  they  had  passed  several  hours  in  this  man- 
ner, the  young  Sunday-school  teacher  warned  her 
companion  that  it  was  time  to  return  ;  but  Tina 
could  not  tear  herself  away  from  this  newly-found 
elysium.  She  pleaded  for  a  few  moments  more,  and 
still  a  few  moments  more,  until  the  trees  began  to 
cast  long  shadows,  and  the  roseate  light  grew  gray, 
and  the  perfumed  air  became  slightly  chilly.  Then 
she  was  reluctantly  conducted  back  to  the  carriage. 

Her  exuberant  spirits  sustained  her  while  the  ex- 
citement lasted,  but  a  reaction  succeeded  its  removal. 
That  night  the  fever  returned  with  increased  violence. 
No  words  of  blame  were  uttered  by  Tina's  parents  ; 
but  Miss  Amory  could  not  forgive  her  own  uncon- 
scious imprudence.  Her  attention,  her  devotions, 
were  redoubled.  She  was  now  seldom  absent  from 
the  child's  couch ;  she  literally  spent  her  days  at 
Robin  Truehart's  lodgings. 


THE     PROMPTER'S     DAUGHTER.  291 

In  a  few  weeks  the  young  sufferer  rallied.  Those 
beautiful  gardens  were  forever  a  haunting  memory 
stored  up  in  her  mind,  but  she  did  not  ask  to  see 
them  again.  She  seemed  to  be  aware  that  her  joy 
had  not  been  temperate  ;  she  had  been  intoxicated 
by  the  exhilarating  air,  the  pastoral  sights  and 
sounds ;  she  had  revelled  in  them  until  the  golden 
rule  of  moderation  was  forgotten. 

"  I  must  not  run  any  more  risks,  or  ask  for  any 
more  indulgences  ;  I  must  get  well  and  go  to  work 
again/7  she  would  often  say.  "How  ill  my  poor 
mother  looks  !  If  I  could  'only  work,  and  let  her 
rest ! " 

The  anxieties  of  the  last  few  months  had  wrought 
an  alarming  change  in  Susan.  Her  cheeks  were  daily 
growing  more  hollow ;  her  weary  eyes  were  deeply 
sunken,  and  circled  with  dark  rings ;  her  form,  al- 
ways slight,  was  becoming  emaciated.  Robin's 
watchful  eyes  saw  the  sad  transition,  and  there  was 
a  mysterious  admonition  in  his  heart,  —  a  foreboding 
of  ill,  which  he  could  not  stifle.  He  marked  how 
wearily  she  went  through  her  allotted  duties  ;  to 
what  a  faint  key  her  voice  had  sunk  ;  how  uncertain 
her  steps  became.  She  never  complained,  and  to 
his  tender  inquiries  always  answered  that  she  was 
well,  she  did  not  suffer,  she  was  very  happy  —  was 
not  her  child  recovering  ?  She  was  so  blessed  in  all 
things  that  she  asked  of  her  heavenly  Father  no 
added  blessings  ;  she  only  prayed  to  become  wor- 
thier of  receiving  those  she  enjoyed. 

Robin  gazed  upon  her  earnestly.  Her  cheek  was 
so  very  pale,  her  eyes  so  dim,  her  whole  mien  per- 


298        the    prompter's   daughter. 

vaded  by  such  an  air  of  languor,  that  he  could  not 
help  saying,  "  Then  you  are  not  suffering  or  griev- 
ing, Sue  ?  You  would  not  hide  it  from  me,  if  you 
were  ? " 

"Hide  it?  No,  Robin,  I  have  never  concealed 
anything  from  you  in  my  life  I  " 

And  it  was  true.  Within  her  guileless  heart  there 
were  no  secret  chambers,  no  curtained  depths,  which 
veiled  the  inmost  sanctuary  from  her  husband's  eyes. 
Unlike  as  were  these  twain  in  all  external  appear- 
ances, there  was  a  similitude  of  soul  which  daily 
joined  them  more  and  more  closely  together.  The 
silver  links  of  perfect  sympathy  had  never  been 
broken,  or  even  jarred  ;  the  eyes  of  both  were  fixed 
on  the  same  goal ;  the  feet  of  both  walked  in  the 
same  path  ;  all  their  thoughts  were  in  unison  ;  their 
faith  was  planted  on  the  same  rock ;  their  knees 
bowed  to  the  same  God ;  theirs  was  the  union  of 
two  minds  whose  strong  affinity  drew  them  into  one. 
Not  that  their  love  was  a  dull,  unvarying  stream,  glid- 
ing in  smooth  monotony.  It  passed  through  soft  gra- 
dations into  Love's  different  seasons,  every  one  more 
perfect  than  the  other,  —  seasons  that  are  exquisitely 
described  by  one  of  our  country's  minstrels,  in  these 
lines  : 

"  The  Spring-time  of  love 

Is  both  happy  and  gay., 
For  joy  sprinkles  blossoms 

And  balm  in  our  way  ; 
The  sky,  earth,  and  ocean, 

In  beauty  repose, 
And  all  the  bright  future 

Is  couleur  de  rose ! 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     299 

"The  Summer  of  love 

Is  the  bloom  of  the  heart, 
When  hill,  grove,  and  valley^ 

Their  music  impart ; 
And  the  pure  glow  of  heaven 

Is  seen  in  fond  eyes, 
And  lakes  show  the  rainbow 
That 's  hung  in  the  skies. 

"The  Autumn  of  love 

Is  the  season  of  cheer, 

Life's  mild  Indian  summer, 

The  smile  of  the  year, 
Which  comes  when  the  golden 

Ripe  harvest  is  stored, 
And  yields  its  own  blessing, 

Repose  and  reward. 

"  The  Winter  of  love 

Is  the  beam  that  we  win, 
While  the  storm  scowls  without, 

From  the  sunshine  within. 
Love's  reign  is  eternal, 

The  heart  is  his  throne, 
And  he  has  all  seasons 

Of  life  for  his  own  !  "  * 

*  G.  P.  Morris. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Ill  Effects  of  Mental  Precocity.  —  Preparation  for  Christmas 
Pantomime.  —  Mr.  Higgins'  Visit  and  Proposition.  — Tina 
resuming  her  Profession. — " Boxing  Night." — The  Fairy 
Queen. — The  Pantomime. —  The  Child's  Power  of  Will. — 
Last  Night  of  the  Pantomime. —  The  Last  Painful  Effort.  — 

The  Old  Property-Room.  —  The  Adieus. Mr.  Higgins  and 

the  Young  Actress.  — Stage  Clothes  laid  aside  for  the  Last 
Time.  —  King  John.  —  The  Prompter's  Agony.  —  Blistered 
Pages  of  the  Prompt-Book.  —  Susan  forced  to  enact  Patience 
in  Henry  the  Eighth.  —  Toilet  made  by  the  Bedside  of  her 
Child. — The  Young  Sunday-school  Teacher  helping  to  robe 
the  Actress. —  Hymn  sung  by  Patience  to  Queen  Katharine^  as 
she  dies. — The  Mother's  Return  Home. —  Singing  the  same 
Hymn  to  her  Child. — Robin's  Entrance. —  The  Last  Hymn. 
—  Tina's  Release. — The  Mother's  Last  Offices. — Unnatural 
Strength  giving  way.  —  Robin's  Parting  Declaration. —  Re- 
union of  Mother  and  Child.  —  Self-Renunciation.  —  The 
Prompter's  Victory. 

Five  months  had  elapsed  since  the  night  of  the 
appalling  catastrophe.  Tina  had  not  regained  her 
former  elastic  vigor,  but  she  persuaded  herself  and 
her  parents  that  she  was  restored  to  health.  Had 
her  constitution  been  strengthened  during  these  first 
seven  years  of  her  life  by  a  close  obedience  to  phys- 
ical laws,  the  recuperative  powers  inherent  in  child- 
hood might  have  effected  a  thorough  restoration.  It 
now  became  evident  that  the  high  cultivation  of  her 
precocious  mind  had  sapped  the  springs  of  vitality. 
Her  so-called  recovery  was  simply  toe  healing  of 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     301 

the  burns,  the  returned  facility  of  locomotion ;  not 
the  ruddy  glow,  the  bounding  pulse,  the  functional 
activity,  of  positive  health. 

Christmas  was  approaching.  The  usual  pantomime 
which  celebrates  the  Christmas  festivities  was  in 
preparation.  One  character  Mr.  Tuttle  found  diffi- 
cult to  "  cast,"  ■ — that  of*a  Fairy  Queen,  whose  duty 
it  was  to  transform  the  young  lovers,  for  certain  dis- 
obedient conduct,  into  the  customary  Columbine  and 
Harlequin,  and  metamorphose  the  crabbed  fathers 
into  Clown  and  Pantaloon.  The  fairy  was  only  re- 
quired to  exhibit  herself  at  intervals  during  the 
pantomime,  and  pronounce  a  few  doggerel  lines,  as 
she  dispensed  her  favors  or  dealt  out  retributive 
justice.  The  role  was  one  technically  called  a 
"light  part,"  but  demanding  "judicious"  repre- 
sentation. Mr.  Higgins  became  particularly  anxious 
that  this  Fairy  Queen  might  be  personated  by  Tina. 
His  audiences  had  fallen  off,  of  late  ;  her  return  to 
the  stage  would  give  a  new  impetus  to  his  nagging 
business  ;  she  would  be  an  especial  attraction  to  the 
merry  juveniles  who  thronged  his  boxes  during  the 
holiday  season. 

Mr.  Higgins  himself  called  at  the  lodgings  of  the 
Trueharts,  and  made  the  proposition  to  the  child. 
She  at  once  declared  herself  quite  able  to  resume 
her  duties.     The  manager  left  the  house  exulting. 

The  Fairy  Queen  first  appears  surrounded  by  her 
attendants,  Coral-branch,  Dewdrop,  Roselips,  Cow- 
slip, Twinkle-star,  Rainbow.  Susan  was  cast  as 
Coral-branch  ;  she  would  have  the  felicity  of  stand- 
ing on  the  stage  beside  her  child,  —  a  privilege  ren- 
dered doubly  dear  by  long  privation. 
26 


302    the  prompter's  daughter. 

Tina  had  not  entered  the  theatre  since  the  night 
of  the  accident,  yet  she  betrayed  no  emotion  at  the 
first  rehearsal  of  the  pantomime.  Perhaps  she  was 
too  feeble  to  be  subject  to  excitement,  or  it  might 
be  the  love  of  her  art  returned  with  a  strong  tide 
that  swept  away  painful  recollections.  She  always 
experienced  a  deep  internal  satisfaction  when  the 
gifts  with  which  she  was  endowed  were  brought  into 
use. 

She  was  welcomed  joyfully  by  the  whole  company. 
Coldness,  indifference,  professional  jealousy,  all  had 
melted  away  in  the  general  sympathy  awakened  by 
her  sufferings.  Her  presence  seemed  to  spread  glad- 
ness wherever  she  passed  ;  scenic  artists,  carpenters, 
scene-shifters,  door-keepers,  dressers,  basket-carriers, 
all  left  their  employments,  to  throng  around  her  and 
rejoice  over  her  return. 

"  Boxing  night/'  as  it  is  termed,  arrived.  It  is 
the  night  succeeding  Christmas,  —  the  first  on  which 
the  theatre  is  opened  after  its  regular  close  for  a  fort- 
night or  three  weeks,  during  the  preparation  of  the 
pantomime.  On  Christmas  eve  and  on  Christmas 
night  there  is  no  performance  in  any  theatre  in  Eng- 
land, —  a  rule  not  observed  in  America. 

According  to  old-established  usage,  some  gloomy, 
terror-inspiring  tragedy  always  precedes  the  panto- 
mime. George  Barnwell,  Jane  .Shore,  Bertram, 
Douglass,  Venice  Preserved,  are  greatly  in  vogue 
on  these  occasions.  But,  although  the  tragedy  is 
expected,  nay,  required,  by  the  audience,  and  faith- 
fully represented  by  the  actors,  to  not  one  single 
sentence  do  the  occupants  of  pit,  gallery,  or  boxes, 
ever  listen.      The  two   former  keep  up  a  continual 


uproar,  which  would  not  be  tolerated  on  any  other 
night.  Sometimes  humorous  conversations  are 
shouted  out  between  the  individuals  aloft  and  their 
acquaintances  below.  No  attempt  is  ever  made  to 
prevent  this  violation  of  decorum.  It  is  one  of  the 
traditional  licenses  of  "  boxing  night. M  The  tumult 
continues  until  the  pantomime  commences ;  and 
then,  strange  to  say,  a  dead  silence,  only  broken  by 
occasional  peals  of  laughter,  reigns  through  the  the- 
atre. Silence  while  the  performance  on  the  stage  is 
principally  in  dumb  show ;  a  deafening  clamor  while 
the  tragic  actors  are  straining  their  lungs  to  render 
audible  their  wrongs,  miseries,  and  heroic  resolves. 

Once  more  Susan  arrayed  her  child  in  the  glitter- 
ing apparel  of  the  stage.  Many  and  many  a  time 
did  she  kiss  those  poor  little  feet,  now  covered  with 
purple  scars,  before  she  drew  on  the  silken  stockinet 
and  tied  the  silver  slippers.  But  when  she  tried  to 
fasten  the  transparent  wings  on  her  child's  shoulders, 
an  icy  bolt  shot  through  her  heart ;  she  thought  of 
those  Ariel  wings  that  had  turned  to  wings  of  flame  ; 
her  trembling  hands  wholly  refused  to  perform  their 
office.  She  turned  away  her  blanched  face,  and 
silently  motioned  to  the  dresser  to  secure  the  fairy 
appendages. 

When  she  was  equipped,  Tina  stole  to  her  father's 
side,  and  attracted  his  attention  by  gently  touching 
him  with  her  silver  wand.  As  he  dropped  his  book 
to  take  her  for  a  moment  in  his  arms,  a  deep  shadow 
passed  over  his  face,  and  he  looked  upwards  as  though 
internally  praying  for  strength  to  bear  some  impend- 
ing affliction. 

The  theatre  was  densely  crowded;   the  tragedy 


304    the  prompter's  daughter. 

was  over.  The  pantomime  commenced.  In  the 
second  scene  the  Fairy  Queen  is  discovered  in  a 
crystal  bower,  surrounded  by  her  nymphs.  Tina's 
appearance  was  the  signal  for  a  perfect  hurricane  of 
acclamations.  While  she  curtseyed  in  acknowledg- 
ment, Susan,  who  was  standing  beside  her  as  Coral- 
branch,  could  not  help  glancing  at  the  round,  rosy, 
laughing  faces  that  clustered  in  the  boxes,  and  con- 
trasting them  with  the  pallid,  wasted  child,  who  re- 
ceived the  juvenile  greeting  with  a  languid  inclination 
and  a  faint  smile.  This  prolonged  clapping  of  little 
dimpled  hands,  this  rapturous  welcome,  was  all  in 
honor  of  Susan's  precious  one ;  and  yet  it  struck  upon 
the  mother's  ears  with  a  sound  of  mockery — her  heart 
sank  as  it  never  sank  before. 

When  the  boisterous  greeting  was  over,  the  panto- 
mime continued.  Tina's  role  was  not  one  that  dis- 
played her  dramatic  abilities,  yet  the  audience  was 
predetermined  to  be  delighted  with  her  most  trifling 
efforts.  Her  step  had  lost  its  springiness,  her  move- 
ments were  undulating  but  nerveless,  her  voice  was 
low  and  tremulous,  its  clear,  ringing  tone  had  quite 
gone  ;  yet  all  these  losses  seemed  to  have  no  effect 
upon  her  popularity. 

There  was  a  deal  of  laughter  elicited  by  Matthews' 
humorous  clown.  "  Hot  Codlins,"  as  usual,  excited 
the  riotous  mirth  of  the  pit.  Pantaloon  was  duly 
buffeted  and  bullied ;  the  stereotyped  traditional 
jokes  played  off  upon  him  created  as  much  amuse- 
ment as  though  they  had  not  been  repeated  every 
Christmas  since  the  grandfathers  and  grandmothers 
present  were  chubby  urchins  themselves.  Colum- 
bine and  Harlequin  and  Sprite  danced  through  the 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     305 

scenes  at  unanticipated  moments,  and  there  was  a 
liberal  expenditure  of  blue  and  red  fire  at  the  grand 
finale,  when  the  Fairy  Queen  ascended  in  a  gilded 
car. 

Accidents  had  been  carefully  guarded  against ; 
everything  passed  off  smoothly.  But  Tina  was  thor- 
oughly exhausted  by  her  light  exertions.  Unable  to 
walk,  she  was  carried  home  in  her  father's  arms,  and 
remained  for  a  long  time  in  a  state  of  semi-con- 
sciousness. 

After  the  first  night's  performance  a  pantomime  is 
not  again  rehearsed.  This  was  fortunate  for  Tina. 
She  lay  almost  motionless  the  whole  of  that  next  day, 
with  wan  cheeks  and  lustreless  eyes,  that  bespoke  her 
utter  prostration.  Yet,  as  evening  drew  near,  she 
roused  herself  with  a  strong  effort,  and  rose  cheer- 
fully, and  said  she  was  better,  and  ready  to  go  to  the 
theatre. 

"  Are  you  able,  my  darling  ?  w  asked  her  mother, 
sadly. 

14 1  must  be  able,  mother  dear ;  for  they  have  no 
substitute,  and  the  pantomime  can't  go  on  without 
the  Fairy  Queen." 

The  little  girl  went  through  her  part  with  minute 
carefulness  ;  but  her  actions  were  all  mechanical,  and 
bore  little  resemblance  to  her  former  fresh  and  spirited 
delineations.  Her  fatigue  was  not  so  great  as  on 
the  previous  evening  ;  to  use  a  theatrical  expression, 
she  was  "  getting  back  into  the  traces." 

The  pantomime  "ran"  thirty  nights,  and  every 
night  the  heroic  child  conquered  her  languor,  and 
went  through  her  duties  without  a  murmur.  But  she 
faded  visibly  ;  her  attenuated  form  seemed  the  light- 


306    the  prompter's  daughter. 

est,  most  transparent  fleshly  temple  that  could  en- 
shrine an  immortal  soul. 

The  pantomime  was  announced  for  the  last  time. 
Tina  found  herself  scarcely  able  to  totter  through  the 
first  scene.  She  struggled, —  struggled  desperately, 
—  the  words  died  away  unuttered  on  her  parched  and 
powerless  lips.  Then  she  smiled  mournfully,  and 
shook  her  head ;  those  who  were  acting  with  her 
comprehended  the  signal ;  they  no  longer  waited  for 
their  cues,  but  spoke  when  she  was  unable  to  pro- 
ceed. 

Mr.  Gildersleaf  stood  watching  her  at  the  wing. 
From  her  earliest  infancy  she  had  entwined  herself 
closely  about  his  honest  heart.  He  now  left  his  post, 
and  hurried  to  the  back  of  the  stage,  behind  the 
scenes.  There  stood  the  bed  used  for  Juliet's  cham- 
ber. With  thoughtful  kindness,  he  took  the  small 
mattress,  and  carried  it  to  the  old  property-room.  As 
Tina  staggered  from  the  stage  into  her  mother's 
arms,  the  good  man  lifted  her  up  gently,  and  carried 
her  to  the  couch  he  had  prepared.  And  there  she 
lay,  in  that  same  "  property-room/'  where,  nearly 
seven  years  ago,  she  had  lain  an  unconscious  infant, 
about  to  be  launched  upon  the  life  of  weariness  and 
toil  which  seemed  her  heritage.  There,  in  the  self- 
same corner,  stood  the  old  cradle,  somewhat  hacked 
and  scratched,  in  which  she  had  been  placed  as  Dot's 
baby.  And  there  was  the  young  mother  kneeling 
beside  her,  even  as  she  had  knelt  upon  that  memo- 
rable night ;  and  now,  as  then,  hopes  and  fears  were 
struggling  for  mastery  in  that  fond  maternal  heart. 
But  hopes  seemed  then  victorious ;  fears  had  now 
gained  the  vantage-ground. 


DAUGHTER.  30t 

"  You  cannot  finish  the  part,  my  child, —  it  is  im- 
possible/ '  said  Susan. 

"I  must  try,  mother,  I  must  try;  it  is  only  to- 
night ;  and  this  will  be  the  last  night  of  the  panto- 
mime,—  the  last  night  of "  She  saw  her  moth- 
er's look  of  anguish,  and  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

Restoratives  were  administered,  and  the  child 
gradually  revived.  One  after  another  the  members 
of  the  company  stole  in  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
general  favorite.  She  spoke  to  them  in  turn,  but  in 
such  a  strange,  solemn  manner  that  some  thought 
her  mind  was  wandering ;  and  to  every  one  she  bade 
a  last,  tender  farewell. 

Even  Mr.  Higgins  made  his  way  to  the  property- 
room. 

"  Come,  little  music-shell,  we  must  get  you  well 
again  before  long.  We  shall  have  to  put  another 
little  girl  into  Prince  Arthur  to-morrow  night,  and 
she  can't  hold  a  candle  to  you  ;  but  your  father  says 
it 's  not  possible  for  you  to  attempt  the  part.  What 
do  you  think  ?  " 

How  could  Mr.  Higgins  have  asked  that  question 
of  the  almost  lifeless  child?  The  dominant  passion 
was  never  silent !  The  voice  of  interest  was  stronger 
within  his  breast  than  the  pleadings  of  humanity  ;  he 
would  have  encouraged  the  public's  darling  to  make 
a  mad  attempt  for  his  benefit,  at  the  obvious  risk  of 
her  very  life. 

"I  fear  not,  sir;  I  wish  I  could  get  through  it, 
but  I  fear  I  shall  never  act  again." 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense !  Don't  talk  so !  You  're  only 
a  little  low-spirited  and  worn  out.  We  '11  soon  have 
you  as  bright  as  a  button,  stirring  up  the  people 


308    the  prompter's  daughter. 

until  they  almost  drive  the  old  roof  off  the  house  with 
their  clapping.  Never  fear, — we  '11  soon  set  you  to 
rights." 

"  But  if  not  —  if —  if  I  am  going  away,  as  I  think 
I  am,  —  if  I  never  see  you  again,  don't  forget  what  I 
now  beg.  Be  kind  to  my  poor  father,  my  dear 
mother  ;  they  will  miss  me  so  much  !  " 

"  Miss  you  ?  We  should  all  miss  you,  the  sweet- 
est music-shell,  and  '  the  noblest  Eoman  of  them  all.' 
But  we  're  not  going  to  miss  you  ;  we  won't  consent 
to  anything  of  the  kind." 

"We  must  all  consent  to  the  will  of  God!"  re- 
plied Tina,  in  a  tone  so  full  of  grave  humility  that 
even  this  ungodly  man  could  not  frame  a  reply. 
There  was  something  shining  in  his  hard  eyes  as  he 
gazed  at  her.  It  could  scarcely  be  called  a  tear,  but 
it  was  the  first  moisture  those  eyes  had  known  for 
years. 

The  call-boy  stood  at  the  door,  —  "Fairy  Queen 
called." 

Tina  rose  with  difficulty,  and  Susan,  who  seemed 
too  much  exhausted  herself  to  remonstrate  in  Mr. 
Higgins'  presence,  readjusted  the  light  wings,  and 
smoothed  the  spangled  dress.  Mr.  Higgins  —  a  won- 
derful condescension  on  his  part  —  took  the  child's 
hand  and  led  her  to  the  wing.  How  she  went  through 
the  scenes  that  remained  was  a  matter  of  wonder  to 
herself.  Strength  seemed  imparted  according  to  her 
need,  and  she  resolutely  roused  herself  to  make  one 
last  effort. 

The  pantomime  was  over ;  Tina's  stage-clothes 
had  been  thrown  aside  for  the  last  time  ;  she  was  at 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     309 

home  again,  and  Dr.  Welldon  standing  beside  her 
couch. 

**  It  may  be  temporary  exhaustion,  —  she  may  re- 
vive/' were  his  comforting  words  to  the  parents. 

Kobin  knew  better,  Susan  knew  better,  but  neither 
gave  voice  to  their  fears. 

The  next  morning  it  appeared  as  though  the  doc- 
tor might  be  right,  for  she  rallied  wonderfully ;  yet 
Robin  was  not  deceived. 

The  play  that  night  was  King  John,  and  the  poor 
prompter,  with  his  thoughts  full  of  his  dying  child, 
was  forced  to  prompt  a  play  replete  with  passages 
that  rent  his  soul.  Every  word  uttered  by  the  new 
Prince  Arthur  brought  back  Tina's  tones,  her  looks, 
her  pretty  actions,  the  bursts  of  applause  that  they 
had  evoked.  Robin  could  hardly  keep  his  seat.  But, 
when  Queen  Constance  broke  forth  in  her  frantic 
lamentation, 

"  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me  ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form  ; 
Then  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief ! '  * 

the  wretched  prompter  dropped  his  head  upon  the 
book,  and  wept  uncontrollably.  When  that  book  was 
used,  long  years  afterwards,  who  that  saw  those 
blistered  pages  divined  with  what  tears  they  had 
been  scalded  ? 

On  his  return  home,  he  found  Tina  and  her  mother 
lying  side  by  side,  talking  cheerfully.  It  was  so 
pleasant  to  have  a  night  of  rest  away  from  the  ex- 


310     THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER. 

citing  sights  and  sounds  that  appertain  to  a  theatre  ! 
Robin  stooped  down  to  receive  their  united  caresses, 
and  for  a  moment  he  forgot  the  menacing  clouds 
about  to  burst  on  his  head. 

Henry  the  Eighth  was  the  tragedy  selected  for 
the  ensuing  night.  Susan  was  cast  as  Patience, 
the  attendant  of  Queen  Katharine.  In  act  third 
Patience  sings  to  the  queen  when  "  her  soul  grows 
sad  with  troubles/'  and  in  act  fourth  she  sings  the 
hymn  which  precedes  Queen  Katharine's  death ;  a 
hymn  introduced  on  the  stage,  though,  according  to 
the  Shakespearian  text,  solemn  music  is  played,  and 
a  sort  of  spirit  dance  mutely  enacted. 

The  character  of  Patience  was  not  of  sufficient 
consequence  for  Miss  Mellen  to  be  persuaded  to  un- 
dertake its  personation,  and  there  was  no  one  else 
in  the  theatre  but  Susan  to  whom  the  music  could 
be  intrusted. 

And  she  must  leave  her  child,  the  child  whose 
earthly  hours  she  feared  would  be  so  few,  to  appear 
upon  the  stage  —  to  sing  ! 

Never  had  inexorable  duty  made  a  harder  require- 
ment. There  was  no  appeal  from  its  stern  demands  ; 
she  prepared  to  depart.  Instead  of  dressing  at  the 
theatre,  according  to  her  usual  custom,  she  hurriedly 
arrayed  herself  at  home.  No  mirror  reflected  her 
form  as  she  donned  the  flowing  white  robe  and  grace- 
ful drapery  suited  to  the  queen's  handmaiden.  She 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  little  bed,  gazing  upon  the 
child,  while  her  unsteady  fingers  fastened  the  bands, 
clasped  the  girdle,  and  looped  the  long  pendent 
sleeves.  Miss  Amory  entered  when  the  task  was 
nearly  completed.     With  instinctive   kindness  she 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     311 

offered  to  assist  Susan,  and  the  latter  did  not  refuse 
her  services.  It  was  a  singular  sight,  the  young 
Sunday-school  teacher,  who  regarded  a  theatre  with 
horror,  helping  to  attire  the  actress  for  her  part. 
Singular,  but,  in  thy  angelic  light,  heaven-born  Char- 
ity, how  beautiful  I 

"  I  shall  be  back  soon,  though  it  will  seem  long," 
said  Susan,  pressing  her  feverish  lips  to  her  child's 
chilly  brow. 

"  Go,  mother !  Miss  Lucy  will  stay  with  me  ! 
Go,  dear  mother,  and  don't  think  of  me  any  more 
than  you  can  help." 

Susan  opened  the  door,  but  twice  returned  for  one 
more  parting  kiss,  then  tore  herself  away. 

An  actress  of  high  distinction  personated  Queen 
Katharine.  The  queen's  death  is  one  of  the  most 
touchingly  eloquent  scenes  upon  the  stage.  Who 
cannot  picture  to  themselves  Susan's  emotion,  as 
she  sang,  to  Handel's  solemn,  awe-inspiring  music, 
the  words  : 

"  Angels,  ever  bright  and  fair, 
Take,  0,  take  her  to  your  care  ; 
Speed  to  your  own  courts  her  flight, 
Clad  in  robes  of  virgin  white  !  " 

Queen  Katharine  wakes  at  the  close  of  the  strain, 
exclaiming, 

"  Spirits  of  peace,  where  are  ye  ?    Are  ye  all  gone  ? 
And  leave  me  here  in  wretchedness  behind  ye  ? 

******** 
Saw  you  not,  even  now,  a  blessed  troop 
Invite  me  to  a  banquet  ;  whose  bright  faces 
Cast  thousand  beams  upon  me,  like  the  sun  ? 
They  promised  me  eternal  happiness  ; 


312    the  prompter's  daughter. 

And  brought  me  garlands,  Griffith,  which  I  feel 
I  am  not  worthy  yet  to  wear  ;  I  shall 
Assuredly." 

Queen  Katharine  dies.  Her  death  takes  place  in 
the  fourth  act  of  the  play,  and  Patience  appears  no 
more.  Susan  neither  waited  for  an  escort  nor  to 
change  her  dress,  but,  wrapping  herself  in  a  man- 
tle, hastily  bade  Robin  adieu,  and  ran  home  as 
swiftly  as  her  strength  permitted. 

There  was  a  fifth  act,  and  a  short  after-piece,  and 
Robin  could  not  leave  until  these  were  over. 

As  Susan  entered  the  room,  Miss  Amory  took 
leave  ;  her  carriage  had  been  waiting  some  time. 

Tina's  eyes  shone  with  supernatural  light  as  they 
rested  on  her  mother. 

"Ah  !  mother,  you  are  back  !  I  see  you  again  — 
you  will  not  leave  me  any  more  ?  It  seemed  so  long, 
and  I  am  so  cold  ;  sometimes  the  room  grows  dark, 
then  it  is  suddenly  lighted  up.  I  wanted  you,  my 
mother,  wanted  to  see  you  once  more  !  Will  father 
be  here  soon  ?  "  The  words  were  gasped  out  with 
difficulty,  for  her  breath  came  rapidly  and  unevenly. 

"  0,  my  child !  my  child !  " 

"Don't  weep,  mother,  —  you  know  it  must  be! 
Don't  weep,  or  perhaps  in  that  other  world  I  shall 
think  of  your  tears,  and  not  rejoice  enough  that  the 
Lord  has  called  me.  Mother,  that  heavenly  world  ! 
All  day  I  have  been  seeing  in  my  mind  those  lovely 
Kew  Gardens,  the  most  beautiful  sight  I  ever  saw  ; 
and  that  world  must  be  even  more  beautiful !  And 
you  will  meet  me  there,  mother !  " 

"  0,  I  trust  so!  —  soon,  very  soon;  and  in  time 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     313 

your  father  will  come,  too  !  "  Susan  had  ceased  to 
weep. 

"  Now  I  love  to  see  you,  mother,  you  are  so  calm 
—  so  like  yourself.  The  pain  is  all  passing  from  me  ; 
my  heart  is  so  light !  Mother,  sing  me  the  hymn 
you  sang  to-night  to  Queen  Katharine  before  she 
died." 

Susan's  voice  was  firmer  and  clearer  than  it  had 
been  on  the  stage  as  she  sang  to  her  dying  child : 

"  Angels,  ever  bright  and  fair, 
Take,  0,  take  her  to  your  care  ; 
Speed  to  your  own  courts  her  flight, 
Clad  in  robes  of  -virgin  white  !  " 

A  portion  of  the  strain  is  repeated  many  times, 
and  the  music  is  majestically  slow.  When  the  last 
notes  died  away,  Susan  and  her  child  both  seemed 
rapt  in  holy  meditation,  —  a  species  of  heavenly 
trance,  which  remained  unbroken  until  Robin  opened 
the  door. 

"0,  father,  father !  you  are  come  ! w  and  Tina 
rose  up,  and  almost  leaped  into  his  extended  arms. 

"  My  mother,  sing  to  me  now  once  more  !  Sing 
the  hymn  we  heard  last  Sabbath,  and  which  we  all 
love  so  well ;  and,  father,  you  will  sing  to  me,  too, 
will  you  not  fyt 

Susan  sang,  and  Robin's  manly  voice  joined  in, 
unfalteringly. 

"  Happy  soul,  secure  from  harm, 
Guarded  by  thy  Shepherd's  arm, 
Who  thy  quiet  can  molest  ? 
Who  can  violate  thy  rest  ? 
Jesus  doth  thy  spirit  bear, 
Far  remove  each  anxious  care. 


314    the  prompter's  daughter. 

"  Shepherd,  with  thy  tenderest  love, 
Guide  me  to  the  fold  above  ! 
Let  me  hear  thy  gentle  voice  ; 
More  and  more  in  thee  rejoice  ; 
From  thy  fulness  grace  receive, 
Ever  in  thy  spirit  live  ! 

"  Filled  by  thee,  my  cup  o'erflows, 
For  thy  love  no  limit  knows  ; 
Guardian  angels,  ever  nigh, 
Lead  and  draw  my  soul  on  high  ; 
Constant  to  my  latest  end, 
Thou  my  footsteps  wilt  attend. 

"  Jesus,  with  thy  presence  blest, 
Death  is  life,  and  labor  rest ; 
Guide  me  while  I  draw  my  breath, 
Guard  me  through  the  gate  of  death  ; 
And,  at  last,  0,  may  I  stand 
With  the  sheep  at  thy  right  hand  !  " 

While  they  still  sang,  a  change  passed  over  the 
child's  countenance  ;  paler  it  could  not  grow,  but 
its  pallor  became  transparent.  The  limbs  quivered 
slightly,  and  then  were  extended  to  their  utmost 
length ;  the  eyes  opened  wide,  as  though  they  saw 
something  invisible  to  others  ;  she  smiled  seraphic- 
ally,  and  then  her  features  gradually  assumed  a  mar- 
ble-like rigidity ;  there  was  a  gurgling,  rattling 
sound  in  her  throat,  which  the  music  did  not  wholly 
drown ;  the  hands  clasped  upon  her  bosom  slowly 
relaxed, —  all  was  very  still. 

Father  and  mother  saw  all,  heard  all.  But  they 
sang  on ;  they  feared  to  disturb  the  parting  spirit  by 
a  word  of  anguish,  a  rebellious  look ;  they  sang  on, 
and  neither  wept.     The  hymn  ended.     They  knew 


THE  PROMPTER'S  DAUGHTER.     315 

that  the  angel  of  death  had  borne  away  their  child 
before  its  close.  Susan  fell  upon  her  husband's 
breast,  and  was  folded  to  his  heart  in  one  long  em- 
brace. Then  she  calmly  turned  to  the  child,  and 
kissed  the  icy  lips  many  times,  and  motioned  Robin 
to  do  the  same.  They  stood  side  by  side,  gazing  on 
the  angelic  countenance,  but  it  was  not  until  kind 
Mrs.  Gildersleaf  entered  the  room  that  either  found 
utterance. 

Then  Susan  closed  the  glazing  eyes,  bound  up  the 
falling  chin,  and,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Gildersleaf 's  re- 
monstrances, insisted  on  performing  the  last  offices. 
She  had  not  once  thought  of  herself,  or  even  cast 
aside  her  stage  attire.  She  robed  the  pure  limbs  in 
white  vesture,  smoothed  the  bright  hair  for  the  last 
time,  wound  its  soft  rings  around  her  fingers,  folded 
the  tiny,  transparent  hands  upon  the  cold  breast, 
and  fastened  them  together  with  a  white  ribbon. 
But,  when  all  was  over,  when  there  was  no  more 
that  could  be  done  for  her  child,  her  unnatural 
strength  gave  way  with  a  sudden  shock,  and  she 
was  seized  with  violent  convulsions. 

"  I  knew  it !  0,  I  knew  it !  Thou  hast  taken  thy 
flight,  my  birdie,  and  she  will  follow  thee  ! "  groaned 
Robin,  as  he  gently  chafed  the  clenched  hands. 

The  convulsions  lasted  several  hours,  and  when 
they  ceased  the  seal  of  death  was  on  her  dewy 
brow.  She  faintly  returned  the  clasp  of  Robin's 
hand. 

"  How  hard,  how  hard  for  you  !  "  she  said  ;  "  you 
will  be  so  desolate  ;  for  —  I —  am  going  —  too  !  " 

"  Going  to  be  with  her, —  going  to  our  child  ! 
Going  to  receive  the  rich  reward  of  all  your  gentle 


316   the  prompter's  daughter. 

goodness !  No,  no  ;  I  will  not,  I  do  not  wish  it 
otherwise.  Don't  think  of  me  ;  it  is  wise  so,  best 
so  !  You  will  suffer  no  more,  will  labor  no  more ; 
you  will  be  happy !  I  am  content  I  I  yield  you  up, 
my  wife,  my  heart's  love,  as  I  did  her  !  I  bless  the 
Lord  for  the  strength  he  gives  me  to  yield  up  both, 
my  life's  sole  treasures,  to  his  will !  " 

Susan  could  not  reply.  Again  a  convulsive  spasm 
distorted  her  features.  The  struggle  was  short,  but 
violent.  When  it  ceased,  her  face  was  calm  as  that 
of  the  child,  which  appeared  to  be  slumbering  on  its 
own  little  bed,  her  limbs  as  composed,  her  frame  as 
pulseless.     Mother  and  child  were  reunited  ! 

For  thee,  poor  hunchbacked  prompter,  with  thy 
great,  upright  soul,  not  bowed  to  earth,  but  lifted 
heavenward  by  thy  mighty  sorrows,  go  on  thy  way 
unmurmuring !  Toil !  suffer !  struggle  !  plod  through 
thy  thankless  duties  day  by  day,  night  by  night ! 
Let  the  bigot  revile  thy  calling,  the  self-righteous 
"  pass  by  on  the  other  side,"  the  ignorant  stigmatize 
thee, —  what  matters  it  ?  Thou  hast  taken  up  thy 
cross,  and  borne  it  manfully  !  Thine  was  the  true 
heroism  of  self-renunciation  !  Thine  the  heaven-de- 
scended love,  that  preferred  the  joy  of  those  beloved 
to  thine  own,  that  willingly  accepted  misery  as  the 
purchase  of  their  felicity !  Thine  will  be  the  crown 
of  glory,  worn  in  eternal  youth,  when  that  deform- 
ing hump  shall  be  shaken  off  with  thy  ''mortal 
coil "  !  The  Lord  hath  taken  all  from  thee  but  to 
pay  thee  back  a  thousand-fold. 

"  '  God  bless  all  our  gains,'  say  we  ; 
But  •  God  bless  all  our  losses  ' 
Better  suits  with  our  degree  !  " 


THE 


UNKNOWN  TRAGEDIAN 


0,  I  could  tell  you  — 
But  let  it  be.    Horatio,  I  am  dead  ; 
Thou  liv'st ;  report  me  and  my  cause  aright 
To  the  unsatisfied.  Hamlet. 


27 


THE   UNKNOWN  TRAGEDIAN. 


0,  I  could  tell  you — 
But  let  it  be.     Horatio,  I  am  dead  ; 
Thou  liv'st  ;  report  me  and  my  cause  aright 
To  the  unsatisfied.  —  Hamlet. 


CHAPTER  I. 


A  Medical  Decision.  —  An  Aged  Pair.  —  Singular  Fact  in  Dra- 
matic History. Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ruthven.  —  The  Stage  Vil- 
lain and  First  Old  Woman  of  the  Theatre.  —  Ehna.  —  Filial 
Devotion.  —  The  Unknown  Tragedian.  —  Correspondence.  — 
Mysterious  Eccentricities.  —  Attachment.  —  The  Arrival.  — 
Rehearsal  of  the  Valedictory.  —  Mortimer's  Powers  of  Capti- 
vation.  —  Interview  with  Elma.  —  Painful  Position  of  the 
Young  Girl.  —  Farewell  Benefit  of  the  Aged  Actress.  —  Pe- 
culiarities of  a  Dublin  Audience.  —  Damon,  and  Pythias.  > — 
Acting  of  the  Great  Tragedian.  —  Elmo's  Scenic  Talents.  — 
Exotics  and  Violets.  —  A  Suspicion.  —  The  Venerable  Act- 
ress as  Mrs.  Malaprop.  —  Incidents.  —  An  Expiring  Flame. 
— The  Unspoken  Adieu.  —  Touching  Close  of  a  Long  Career. 
—  The  Curtain  and  Pall. 

11  Will  you  give  me  your  candid  opinion  ?  " 
"  It 's  little  short  of  suicide  —  you  have  it." 
"  But,"  returned  the  aged  man  who  had  demanded 
that  rarest  of  commodities,   a  candid  opinion,  and 


320  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

who,  having  received  it,  was  ready,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  world,  to  question  its  truth,  —  "  but  you  do  not 
know  how  immovably  her  mind  is  fixed  on  this  fare- 
well. You  are  not  an  actor  —  you  can  have  no  ade- 
quate conception  of  the  reluctance  with  which  we 
lay  down  our  dramatic  mantle,  even  when  our  shoul- 
ders are  too  feeble  to  carry  it  longer  ;  —  how  fiercely 
we  wrestle  against  the  infirmities  of  age,  which  ad- 
monish us  that  our  hour  of  scenic  triumph  is  nearly 
expended.  You  sneer  ;  —  that 's  natural,  for  none  but 
an  actor  can  comprehend  what  the  stage  is  to  those 
whose  hairs,  as  my  wife's  and  mine,  have  grown  gray 
in  the  blaze  of  the  foot-lights.  She  made  her  debut 
when  she  was  so  young  that  she  cannot  even  remem- 
ber the  occasion  ;  and  now  she  is  seventy,  just  seven 
years  my  junior.  How,  then,  am  I  to  forbid  this 
leave-taking  of  a  public  in  whose  presence  her  life  has 
ebbed  away,  upon  whose  favor  she  has  existed  ?  " 

"  If  science  may  be  trusted,  her  disease  must  end 
fatally,"  coolly  replied  phlegmatic  Dr.  Duff;  "the 
exertion  of  a  last  effort  on  the  stage  will  shorten  her 
days.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  agitation  conse- 
quent upon  thwarting  her  wishes  may  produce  the 
same  result.  I  leave  you  to  choose  between  the 
evils." 

"Then,  my  choice  is  made,"  said  Mr.  Ruthven. 
"  She  shall  appear.  This  farewell  to  her  is  the  ren- 
dering up  an  account  of  her  public  stewardship, 
before  she  resigns  her  office  forever.  If  it  be  true 
that  I  must  lose  her,  though  I  cannot  think  it,  let 
me  not  be  haunted  by  the  recollection  that  I  denied 
her  last  wishes." 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  321 

Mr.  Ruthven  rose,  and,  followed  by  the  physician, 
entered  the  adjoining  apartment. 

In  an  arm-chair,  propped  up  by  pillows,  sat  Mrs. 
Ruthven.  Even  a  close  observer  would  not  have 
pronounced  that  she  had,  by  many  years,  reached 
the  age  which  her  husband  had  just  declared. 

Is  there  some  invisible  Medea  that  waits  upon 
the  steps  of  actors,  and,  when  the  frosty  hand  of  age 
is  laid  upon  them  to  congeal  their  blood,  who  pours 
into  their  shrunken  veins  (as  did  the  niece  of  Circe 
into  those  of  old  ^Eson)  the  juices  of  precious  herbs, 
which  renew  their  youth  ?  It  is  a  singular  fact  in 
dramatic  history,  that,  in  spite  of  late  hours,  endless 
exposures,  incessant  fatigue,  constant  excitement,  and 
systematically  irregular  habits,  performers  preserve 
a  rare  degree  of  personal  freshness  and  intellectual 
vigor  until  nature  reaches  "  the  very  verge  of  her  con- 
fine." Whence  comes  the  talisman  with  which  they, 
despite 

"  of  Age's  fiat, 
Resist  decay  ' '  ? 

This  lingering  of  youth  in  age  is,  perhaps,  attri- 
butable to  the  daily  mental  and  physical  exercise  of 
all  their  faculties.  It  is  through  disuse  or  disease, 
rather  than  by  nature's  law,  that  the  powers  of  men 
are  early  impaired.    ' 

The  traces  of  severe  suffering  were  apparent  on 
Mrs.  Ruthven's  countenance,  but  they  had  not  wholly 
dethroned  and  banished  the  beauty  for  which  it  once 
was  famed.  The  rose  of  youth  had  not  dropped  all 
its  leaves.  Fever  lent  its  repairing  glow  to  the 
faded  cheeks,  its  delusive  light  to  the  once  brilliant 


322  THE      UNKNOWN      TRAGEDIAN. 

eyes.  These,  and  a  bright,  animated  expression, 
concealed  the  thefts  of  time. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  was  the  daughter  of  an  Edinburgh 
manager.  Before  she  reached  her  thirtieth  year 
she  was  distinguished  for  her  consummate  skill  in  the 
personation  of  "  comic  and  pathetic  old  women." 
This  was  the  "line  "  which  she  preferred.  No  petty, 
unartistic  vanity  marred  the  fidelity  of  her  delinea- 
tions. Her  personal  attractions  were  unconcernedly 
obscured  beneath  a  series  of  well-executed  disguises. 
She  was  perfect  mistress  of  the  effects  produced  by 
elaborately-painted  wrinkles,  snowy  locks  "  the 
dowry  of  a  second  head,"  antiquated  costume,  and  a 
tottering  gait.  It  was,  however,  somewhat  strange 
that  in  her  youth  she  assumed  with  alacrity  all  ven- 
erable roles,  but  after  her  years  numbered  half  a  cen- 
tury she  evinced  a  strong  preference  for  the  most 
juvenile  heroines  in  her  repertoire. 

Mr.  Ruthven  was  one  of  the  leading  members  of 
her  father's  company,  the  representative  of  all  the 
heartless,  remorseless,  hideous  stage  villains  ;  for  a 
"good  villain"  (if  we  may  be  excused  for  the  join- 
ing of  opposites  which  theatrical  parlance  unites  to 
convey  its  meaning)  is  one  of  the  necessary  concom- 
itants of  a  successful  play. 

Mr.  Ruthven  became  such  an  adept  in  portraying 
the  different  shades  of  knavery,  that  the  audience 
constantly  confounded  the  man  with  the  characters  he 
assumed.  It  cordially  detested  him,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  visited  the  unoffending  actor  with  signal 
marks  of  disapprobation ;  but  the  hiss  bestowed  on 
the  villain  is  a  demonstration  veiy  nearly  as  compli- 
mentary as  applause  lavished  on  the  hero. 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  323 

Mr.  Ruthven  wooed  and  won  the  manager's  daugh- 
ter. Their  positions  in  her  fathers  theatre  remained 
unaltered  by  this  union  until  his  death.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Ruthven  then  travelled  in  the  provinces  for  a 
few  seasons,  and  finally  crossed  the  channel  and  set- 
tled in  Dublin.  They  had  now  been  members  of  the 
Dublin  Theatre  Royal  for  fifteen  years. 

Husband  and  wife  were  alike  enamored  of  their 
profession.  Though  no  longer  spurred  to  its  pursu- 
ance by  "necessity's  sharp  pinch/'  it  possessed 
allurements  to  their  minds  which  few  considerations 
could  have  compelled  them  to  resist. 

Upon  them  both  the  infirmities  of  age  had  crept 
very  slowly.  These  were  chiefly  apparent  in  dimin- 
ished physical  strength  and  impaired  memory.  Loss 
of  memory  it  could  not  be  termed, — for  the  language 
of  numberless  characters  which  they  had  enacted  in 
their  youth  could  be  recalled  without  effort,  — -  but  to 
commit  the  context  of  recent  productions  now  be- 
came a  Sisyphus-like  labor,  ever  frustrated  the  instant 
it  seemed  accomplished.  Every  page  in  memory's 
huge  volume  appeared  to  be  filled.  The  aged  pair 
were  forced  to  "  wing  "  (as  it  is  called)  all  new  parts ; 
that  is,  con  them  at  the  wings  until  summoned  to 
appear  upon  the  stage,  and  resume  the  study  at  every 
exit.  Even  this  drawback  could  not  render  their 
profession  less  fascinating. 

They  resided  in  a  handsome  but  unostentatious 
mansion  in  Merrion-square.  The  smiles  of  five  chil- 
dren had  brightened  their  hearth  for  a  short  space, 
and  then  the  homes  of  four  were  exchanged  for  a 
heavenlier  abode,  —  one  daughter  remained. 

Elma  —  her  name  was  a  compound  of  Elizabeth 


324  THE     UNKNOWN      TRAGEDIAN. 

and  Mary,  the  respective  appellations  of  her  mother 
and  grandmother  —  had  just  completed  her  twenty- 
second  year  Her  infant  feet  had  trodden  the  boards 
for  the  first  ten  years  of  her  life  ;  the  ensuing  ten 
were  passed  in  the  studious  seclusion  of  a  justly-cel- 
ebrated London  seminary.  Her  twentieth  birthday 
brought  her  back  to  the  paternal  roof. 

That  she  should  become  an  actress  was  certainly 
not  a  matter  of  necessity,  but  to  the  minds  of  her 
parents  it  was  a  matter  of  course.  They  regarded 
the  stage  as  her  legitimate  and  most  desirable  desti- 
nation. 

Elma  did  not  inherit  their  attachment  for  the  theat- 
rical profession,  nor  could  a  fondness  for  dramatic 
representations  be  engrafted  upon  her  mind  by  stage 
triumphs.  She  shrank  from  the  display  of  her  talents 
for  the  entertainment  of  an  incongruous  crowd.  She 
felt  humiliated  when  she  reflected  that  the  privilege 
of  gazing  upon  her  face,  and  passing  judgment  upon 
her  endowments,  could  be  purchased.  Such  thoughts 
never  disturb  the  brain  of  the  genuine  and  enthusi- 
astic artist,  who  wholly  separates  herself  from  her 
vocation — divides  her  actual  life  from  her  stage  exist- 
ence ;  but  Elma  had  not  been  gifted  with  this  faculty. 

There  is  a  certain  affectation  very  prevalent  among 
performers,  which  induces  the  larger  portion  to  affirm 
that  they  detest  the  stage,  they  hate  acting,  they 
can't  abide  plays.  This  assumed  contempt  is  looked 
upon  as  a  mark  of  theatrical  aristocracy. 

When  Elma  communicated  to  her  parents  her  re- 
pugnance towards  the  career  they  designed  for  her, 
they  imagined  that  she  had  adopted  the  cant  of  the 
theatre,  and  laughed  at  her  declaration.     She  per- 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  325 

ceived  how  deeply  they  would  have  been  wounded, 
how  seriously  disappointed,  had  they  believed  her 
distaste  unfeigned  ;  and  submitted  without  further 
argument. 

Filial  devotion  was  one  of  the  most  strongly- 
developed  attributes  of  her  nature.  To  suffer  in 
silence  was  less  painful  than  to  oppose  the  wishes 
of  her  parents.  Had  they  not  called  her  the  "  balm 
of  their  age/7  the  sole  "  thread  of  their  own  lives  "  ? 
That  balm  should  not,  by  her  self-will,  be  turned  to 
gall ;  nor  that  tender  thread  be  changed  to  an  iron 
band,  tightening  around  and  eating  into  the  hearts 
that  cherished  her.     Thus  she  became  an  actress. 

She  made  a  successful  debut  at  the  Dublin  Theatre 
Royal.  For  two  years  she  discharged  the  duties  of 
leading  lady  of  the  company. 

But  to  return  to  Mrs.  Ruthven.  As  her  husband 
and  physician  entered  her  chamber,  she  asked,  in  a 
cheerful  tone,  "  Well,  doctor,  do  you  intend  to  humor 
me?" 

"  I  have  left  the  decision  with  Mr.  Ruthven." 

'*  And,  as  Arthur  is  not  in  the  habit  of  denying  me 
anything,  we  may  look  upon  the  farewell  question  as 
settled.     Is  it  not  so,  Arthur?  " 

"Dr.  Duff  thinks  there  is  danger,  Mary,"  replied 
her  husband,  as  he  carefully  arranged  the  pillows 
that  supported  her,  and  seated  himself  by  her  side. 

"  Danger  ?  —  the  bow  is  bent  and  drawn,  the  shaft 
must  fly  !  That  he  has  already  intimated,"  answered 
Mrs.  Ruthven ;  "  and  I  have  said  'amen'  if  it  must 
be,  and  only  ask  that  you  will  not  refuse  to  let  me 
bid  my  friends  adieu." 

At  that  moment  a  young  girl  entered  the  chamber. 
28 


326  THE      UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

Her  exquisitely-rounded  form  was  several  inches 
above  the  Medici's  height.  Her  half-stately  bearing, 
her  queen-like  tread,  the  classic  pose  of  her  head  on 
her  shoulders,  the  chiselled  regularity  of  her  features, 
befitted  a  Juno.  But  the  face  itself  was  more  suited 
to  a  Madonna  —  if  the  arbitrary  old  masters  would 
allow  us  to  imagine  a  Madonna  with  a  rich  olive 
complexion,  and  shining  dark  hair  wound  in  coronet 
shape  around  a  broad,  low  brow. 

She  bowed  to  the  doctor,  quietly  removed  her  bon- 
net, drew  a  chair  to  the  invalid,  and  fixed  upon  her 
countenance  a  pair  of  soft  brown  eyes,  "  sweet, 
earnest  eyes  of  grace/ '  with  an  unspoken  inquiry. 
Elma's  silence  had  always  a  tongue  as  eloquent  as 
though  her  thoughts  had  been  made  vocal. 

The  mother  replied  to  her  daughter's  look.  "  Yes, 
I  am  better,  darling,  a  great  deal  better ;  for  they 
will  let  me  have  my  own  way  —  the  farewell  is  set- 
tled upon." 

"0  no,  my  mother,  my  father  —  you  will  not  con- 
sent !  Doctor,  you  surely  will  not  permit  this,  in  my 
mother's  state !  n  pleaded  Elma. 

"Elma — "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ruthven,  in  a  troubled 
tone  ;  but  her  husband  interrupted  her. 

"  Elma,  do  not  disturb  your  mother's  serenity  ; 
you  cannot  comprehend  her  feelings.  Her  earnest 
desire  shall  be  gratified." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  was  holding  her  husband's  hand  in 
one  of  hers,  and  her  daughter's  in  the  other.  She 
drew  both  fondly  to  her  bosom.  The  remonstrance 
that  rose  to  Elma's  lips  remained  unuttered. 

"  Mr.  Ruthven  says  you  expect  the  great  trage- 


THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  321 

dian.  Do  you  really  think  he  will  be  here  for  your 
farewell  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Duff.  "  Mr.  Mortimer  is  so 
uncertain,  so  eccentric,  that  he  can  never  be  depended 
upon." 

"  The  rest  of  the  world  may  have  no  cause  to  rely 
upon  him,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven,  "but  we  have, —  for 
1  here  is  metal  more  attractive '  than  the  whole  world 
can  offer." 

She  smiled  upon  her  daughter  as  she  spoke. 

But  the  delicate  bloom  on  Elma's  cheek  deepened 
not  to  crimson,  as  it  is  wont  to  do  on  maidens'  faces  at 
the  sound  of  a  name  inscribed  in  the  innermost  centre 
of  their  hearts.  Her  eyes  sought  the  ground,  but 
their  lids  veiled  a  look  of  pain  rather  than  one  of 
sweet  confusion. 

"Here  is  Mortimer's  letter  in  answer  to  mine; 
quaint  as  himself, —  read  it,"  continued  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven, handing  a  note  to  the  doctor. 

He  perused  aloud : 

"  Newcastle  on  Tyne, 

October  Mh,  18—. 

"  '  What  so  poor  a  man  as  Hamlet  is  may  do,  to 
express  his  love  and  friending  to  you,  God  willing, 
shall  not  lack.'  Gerald  Mortimer." 

Those  were  the  only  words  the  paper  contained. 

The  minds  of  actors  are  often  so  richly  stored  with 
poetic  lore  that  their  lips  borrow  the  language  of  the 
dramatists  almost  unconsciously.  The  student  of 
Shakspeare,  in  particular,  finds  in  his  wondrous, 
teeming  treasury  every  passion,  every  emotion, 
every  aspiration,  almost  every  situation  in  which 
humanity  can  be  thrown,  clothed  with  fitting  and 


328  THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

forcible  expression.  Truly  has  a  humbler  minstrel 
sang,  that  words  of  power, 

"  Flung  from  Shakspeare's  bolder  hand, 
Went  vibrating  through  all  the  land, 
And  found  in  every  heart  a  tone 
That  seemed  an  echo  of  their  own."  * 

Mortimer  was  an  acknowledged  devotee  at  the  shrine 
of  this  Apollo  of  the  drama,  and  constantly  sounded 
notes  from  his  lyre  in  the  strains  of  every-day  life. 

The  history  of  Gerald  Mortimer  was  enveloped  in 
impenetrable  mystery.  Five  years  previous  to  the 
period  of  which  we  write,  a  "star"  suddenly  burst 
upon  the  dramatic  firmament  of  Dublin,  and  the 
gazing  crowd  sank  down  with  involuntary  homage. 

"  Whence  came  this  potent  magician  ?  "  "  What 
is  his  history  ?  "  "  Has  he  worn  the  buskin  be- 
fore ?  "     These  were  questions  no  one  could  answer. 

Gerald  Mortimer  took  his  audience  by  storm, 
towered  above  criticism,  and  in  a  single  night  leapt 
to  the  drama's  highest  eminence. 

He  was  eagerly  sought  by  managers  throughout 
Great  Britain.  In  obeying  or  declining  their  sum- 
mons he  appeared  to  be  actuated  solely  by  caprice. 
His  fame  reached  London.  Offers  from  Drury  Lane, 
Covent  Garden,  the  Haymarket,  the  Princess', 
poured  in  upon  him.  All  solicitations  from  the  me- 
tropolis were  briefly  declined.  No  reason  was  vouch- 
safed. 

It  was  generally  acceded  that  the  name  of  Gerald 
Mortimer  was  assumed  for  stage  purposes.     There 

*  William  H.  Burleigh. 


THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  329 

were  numberless  rumors  afloat  concerning  the  trage- 
dian's probable  parentage.  Many  asserted  that  noble 
blood  flowed  in  his  veins.  Others  soared  higher,  and 
whispered  strange  tales  of  the  devotion  of  one  of 
England's  kings  to  an  actress. 

If  a  majestic  presence,  "an  eye  like  Mars,  to 
threaten  or  command,"  a  brow  shadowed  by  "Hy- 
perion's curls,"  were  insignias  of  illustrious  blood, 
he  bore  about  him  his  patent  of  nobility.  Certes  his 
name  stood  high  on  nature's  peerage-roll,  if  upon  no 
other. 

From  his  earliest  acquaintance  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Euthven,  Mortimer  entertained  for  them  a  venerating 
esteem.  In  their  presence  he  often  laid  aside  his 
grave  demeanor,  habitual  reserve,  and  laconic  inter- 
course. Their  devotion  to  their  art,  which  he  con- 
fessedly shared,  was,  perhaps,  the  first  uniting  link 
of  sympathy.  A  stronger  chain  was  forged  when 
Elm  a  appeared  before  him.  Admiration  quickly  mel- 
lowed into  attachment. 

Mortimer,  before  he  addressed  the  young  girl, 
declared  his  hopes  to  her  approving  parents.  In 
that  avowal  he  confided  a  portion  of  his  own  history, 
enough  to  remove  all  scruples  from  their  minds. 
His  confidence  was  kept  sacred  even  from  their 
daughter.  If  he  were  blessed  in  winning  her  affec- 
tions, the  veil  that  obscured  his  past  career  would  be 
torn  away  before  he  claimed  her  hand.  That  promise 
was  all-sufficient. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  earnestly  desired  that  the  evening 
upon  which  she  resigned  her  stage  honors  might  be 
commemorated  by  one  of  the  powerful  dramatic 
efforts  of  her  most  valued  friend.     She  had  penned 


330  THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

him  her  wishes,  and  had  received  by  return  of  mail 
the  brief  but  expressive  reply  which  Dr.  Duff  had 
just  perused. 

After  a  consultation  with  the  manager,  the  farewell 
benefit  (so  it  was  called)  was  arranged  to  take  place 
at  the  close  of  the  ensuing  week.  Mortimer  was 
duly  apprised.  His  answer  was  concentrated  in  two 
sentences : 

u  I  shall  be  with  you  ;  part,  Damon.         G.  M." 

Mrs.  Ruthven's  forte  was  comedy.  She  selected 
Mrs.  Malaprop,  in  Sheridan's  play  of  The  Rivals,  for 
her  last  assumption. 

Mortimer  never  cast  aside  the  sceptre  of  tragic 
state  to  don  the  cap  and  bells.  He  would  appear  in 
the  drama  of  Damon  and  Pythias,  which  was  to  pre- 
cede the  comedy. 

The  Dublin  theatrical  world  was  thrown  into  a 
state  of  high  excitement  by  the  announcement  of  the 
proposed  farewell.  The  night  would  be  a  memorable 
epoch  in  dramatic  annals. 

The  morning  of  the  benefit  arrived.  Rehearsal 
passed  off  without  Mortimer.  But  he  often  dispensed 
with  its  ceremonies. 

Actors  are  usually  very  tenacious  about  the  sides 
they  occupy,  and  the  exeunts  and  entrances  of  those 
who  are  performing  with  them.  The  unexpected 
change  of  a  situation  to  which  they  have  been  ac- 
customed will  sometimes  obliterate  from  their  minds 
the  context  of  the  play.  But,  whenever  Mortimer 
was  asked  by  a  member  of  a  company  "  On  which 
side  do  you  wish  me  to  enter  ?  M  his  invariable  reply 
was,  "  Where  you  like  ;  I  shall  find  you." 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  331 

On  several  occasions,  when  public  expectation  was 
raised  to  an  unusual  pitch,  Mortimer  had  failed  to 
appear.  He  never  condescended  to  account  for  his 
absence.  The  manager  who  ventured  to  remonstrate 
was  silenced  by  a  haughty  request  to  name  his  losses. 
Enormous  penalties  were  paid  by  the  tragedian  with- 
out discussion. 

As  the  protracted  rehearsal  drew  to  a  close,  the 
actors  whispered  their  doubts  of  Mortimer's  coming  ; 
the  manager  exhibited  his  anxiety  by  unwonted  irri- 
tability ;  and  even  Elma  and  her  father  began  to  be 
alarmed.     Mrs.  Ruthven  was  not  present. 

After  rehearsal,  Mr.  Ruthven  hastened  to  the  hotel 
where  the  tragedian  usually  lodged,  to  learn  if  he 
had  arrived.     Elma  returned  home  alone. 

Her  hand  was  on  the  door  of  her  mother's  sitting- 
room,  when  a  sound  from  within  arrested  her. 
Those  deep,  rich  tones  could  belong  to  no  voice  but 
Mortimer's.  Her  mind  was  relieved  of  one  anxiety  ; 
and  yet  she  hesitated,  as  though  another  had  usurped 
its  place.  The  soft  brightness  of  her  countenance, 
which  might  aptly  be  likened  to  the  subdued  light  of 
the  moon,  was  under  an  eclipse  as  she  entered. 

Mortimer  rose  eagerly,  and  the  hand  she  offered 
was  clasped  somewhat  more  warmly  than  mere 
friendly  courtesy  warranted.  She  released  it  with 
a  look  of  distress,  rather  than  of  embarrassment,  as 
she  said, 

"Everybody  will  be  so  glad  you  have  come! 
They  feared  at  the  theatre  you  would  not  be  here." 

u  And  is  Elma  included  in  the  '  everybody '  who 
is  glad  that  I  have  come  ?  " 

u  Of  course." 


332  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

"  Your  mother  had  no  fears  that  I  would  prove 
faithless  to  my  word.     Were  you  as  confident  ?  " 

" I  hoped  —  I  could  not  tell;  but  you  must  not 
expect  every  one  to  have  the  unbounded  confidence 
in  you  that  my  mother  has."  Elma  concluded  her 
sentence  in  as  sprightly  a  tone  as  she  could  command. 

Mortimer  resumed  his  seat  without  removing  his 
dark,  penetrating  eyes  from  her  countenance. 

"  Will  your  father  be  here  soon,  my  love  ?  w  asked 
her  mother. 

u  He  went  to  inquire  for  Mr.  Mortimer  —  but  here 
is  my  father." 

Mr.  Ruthven  and  Mortimer  greeted  each  other 
heartily. 

"Sit  down,  all  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven.  "I 
have  one  rehearsal  more  to  go  through,  and  that  will 
be  the  last.  Our  friends  will  expect  a  few  parting 
words  to-night.  *I  have  just  written  down  my  vale- 
dictory. Listen,  little  audience,  and  I  will  read  to 
you." 

They  gathered  around  her,  and  she  read,  in  a  faint, 
tremulous  voice,  from  the  paper  in  her  hand.  She 
briefly  summed  up  the  events  of  a  life  which  had 
"in  public  service  flown,"  from  the  hour  when  child- 
hood's lisping  tongue  first  became  the  interpreter  of 
the  poet's  language,  even  to  this,  when  the  hand  of 
disease  had  seized  her,  and  age  stood  ready  to  place 
its  paralyzing  seal  upon  her  lips.  Then  gushed  forth 
a  torrent  of  thanks,  pent  up  by  an  adieu. 

Her  husband  bowed  his  head  and  hid  his  face  in 
his  hands.     Elma,  as  she  listened, 

"shook 
The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes." 


THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  333 

Mortimer  had  risen  and  walked  to  the  window. 
"When  he  returned,  "  the  many-colored  iris  round  his 
eye  "  betrayed  that  Nature  would  not  be  defrauded 
of  her  custom,  in  spite  of  Manhood's  shame. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  fell  back  exhausted.  Then,  as  she 
marked  the  signs  of  dolor  in  the  little  group  before 
her,  she  rallied  her  fugitive  faculties. 

"  Come,  come,  good  people,  don't  weep  before  the 
time  !  No  crying  at  rehearsal,  you  know  !  Now, 
let  me  lie  down.  Gerald,  give  me  your  arm.  Arthur 
is  hardly  young  enough  to  support  me,  for  I  have 
grown  as  old  as  Sybilla  within  the  last  month,  and  I 
doubt  whether  Sybilla  was  half  as  decrepid." 

With  the  tenderness  of  a  son  the  dark-browed 
tragedian  supported  the  aged  actress  to  her  chamber. 
Elma  accompanied  them. 

"Now,  leave  me  to  myself,  my  —  children." 

The  mother  gave  affectionate  emphasis  to  the  last 
word. 

Mortimer  turned  to  depart,  but  Elma  still  lingered 
by  her  mother's  couch.  It  was  not  until  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven, regardless  of  her  daughter's  soliciting  look, 
repeated  the  request,  that  she  returned  with  Morti- 
mer to  the  drawing-room.  Mr.  Ruthven  was  no 
longer  there.  He  had  retired  to  "  deal  with  grief 
alone.7' 

Few  men  were  better  fitted  to  captivate  a  woman's 
heart,  and  compel  its  deep  fountains  of  devotion  to 
gush  forth  responsive  to  his  will,  than  Gerald  Morti- 
mer. He  possessed  that  persuasive  eloquence  which 
enthralls  the  ear  ;  that  impressive  earnestness  which 
fixes  every  wandering  thought;  that  reverence  of 
manner  towards  the  weaker  sex  which  lures  it  to 


334  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

forget  man's  actual  superiority,  and  feel  itself  the 
stronger;  and  —  most  potent  of  all  —  that  consider- 
ate tenderness  which  recognizes  that  womanhood  is 
dowried  with  sufferings  from  which  he  is  exempt,  to 
render  her  existence  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  man. 

"  Your  mother  is  failing  fast,  Elma,"  said  he,  when 
they  had  resumed  their  seats. 

u  Very  fast ;  and  to-night  —  how  I  dread  it !  But 
no  persuasions  could  induce  her  to  forego  this  fare- 
well. She  loves  her  profession  so  passionately  —  it 
is  enigmatical  1 " 

"  Enigmatical  to  your  mind,  Elma,  where  there  is 
no  answering  chord ;  but  it  quickly  translates  itself 
to  mine,  which  has  strings  to  respond  to  this  too 
earthly  music.  Yet  your  unaffected  distaste  for  the 
stage  only  commands  my  admiration. " 

"  It  hardly  deserves  the  name  of  distaste.  I  have  ex- 
perienced a  sort  of  pleasure  in  certain  personations  ; 
but  my  imagination  pictures  a  more  delightful  mode  of 
life.  I  am  lamentably  deficient  in  ambition.  '  I  could 
be  bounded  in  a  nutshell,  and  count  myself  a  queen 
of  infinite  space  ;  \  my  throne  a  cheerful  hearth-stone, 
my  sceptre  too  unpoetic  a  household  badge  to  bear 
mentioning.  A  serene  seclusion,  a  holy  round  of 
daily  duties  — "  Elma  paused  abruptly,  as  though 
the  picture  she  was  painting  might  reveal  too'many 
hidden  thoughts. 

"An  actor's  wife  need  not  perforce  be  an  actress  ! " 
replied  Mortimer,  pointedly. 

Elma  turned  away. 

"Do  not  fear,  Elma!  I  will  not  press  my  suit 
until  you  grant  me  permission.  One  single  word 
silences  me  forever.     My  happiness  could   not   be 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  335 

purchased  by  your  misery.  I  am  content  to  know 
that  this  *  white  wonder '  is  not  promised  to  any 
other." 

And  he  took  her  hand,  which  was  indeed 

"  As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it." 

"  It  is  not  promised,"  she  answered  ;  but  the  hand 
was  withdrawn. 

"And  your  heart,  Elma, — that  has  chosen  no 
lord?" 

A  blush  that  had  stolen  its  hue  from  the  sunset 
sky  now  suffused  her  countenance,  as  she  faltered 
out, 

**  You  question  me  strangely  ;  you  —  " 

There  was  a  suppressed  emotion,  a  calmness  al- 
most terrifying,  in  Mortimer's  tone,  as  he  interrupted 
her. 

"  Be  frank  with  me,  Elma !  Although  your  words 
must  pierce  every  sense,  enter  like  daggers  in  my 
ears,  and  cut  my  heart  in  twain,  — =-  though  all  my 
future  prove  builded  on  sand,  and  crumble  at  your 
feet, — yet  tell  me  truly,  mercilessly,  if  you  love 
another ! " 

Elma  shrank  away  from  his  gaze  as  though  she 
would  evade  the  lightning's  scathing. 

"  What  cause  have  I  given  you  for  such  a  sus- 
picion ? " 

"  No  cause,  nor  have  I  ever  stooped  to  suspicion. 
I  asked  the  question  inadvertently.  I  make  no  com- 
plaint of  your  reserve  —  your  coldness,  for  perhaps 
it  deserves  that  name.  I  can  exist  upon  the  assur- 
ance that  your  heart  is  free." 

At  this  crisis  Mr.  Ruthven  entered  the  room.     Did 


336  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

Mortimer  note  Elma's  look  of  relief  ?  Did  he  remark 
the  alacrity  with  which  she  busied  herself  upon  some 
feminine  trifles  pertaining  to  her  theatrical  ward- 
robe ?  Could  he  fail  to  lack  her  presence,  when  she 
thought  him  absorbed  in  conversation  with  her 
father,  and  softly  glided  from  the  apartment  ? 

Elma's  upright  mind  would  never  have  premedi- 
tatedly  allowed  her  to  be  placed  in  her  present  posi- 
tion towards  Mortimer.  He  had  poured  out  his 
own  wealth  of  passion,  and  claimed  no  return.  He 
was  satisfied  to  woo  with  Jacob-like  patience,  if  the 
jewel  of  his  soul  enriched  no  other  bosom.  Elma 
had  not,  therefore,  been  called  upon  to  fan  or  extin- 
guish a  flame  so  self-existent.  Nor  could  she  have 
overthrown  the  cherished  hopes  of  her  parents  with- 
out a  pang  too  severe  to  be  needlessly  encountered. 
Mortimer's  high  gifts  excited  her  admiration,  his 
magnanimity  won  her  esteem  ;  and,  in  a  nature  truly 
feminine,  esteem  is  ever  mingled  with  some  degree 
of  affection  ;  but  he  had  failed  to  inspire  her  with 
an  all-engrossing  love.  And  why  ?  She  had  scarcely 
acknowledged  the  impediment  to  herself. 

The  performances  of  the  evening  commenced  with 
the  drama  of  Damon  and  Pythias,  the  clever  produc- 
tion of  John  Banim,  a  youthful  Irish  dramatist. 

Mortimer  enacted  Damon,  Mr.  Ruthven  the  tyrant 
Dionysius,  and  Elma,  Calanthe,  the  betrothed  of 
Pythias. 

As  Mrs.  Ruthven  did  not  appear  until  the  first 
play  was  concluded,  her  husband  and  daughter  were 
compelled  to  leave  her  at  an  early  hour. 

The  thronged  audience  overflowed  upon  the  stage. 
Chairs  were  ranged  to  receive  them  in  front  of  the 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  337 

proscenium,  and  the  entrances  behind  the  scenes 
were  so  densely  crowded  that  the  performers  could 
scarcely  force  their  way.  Not  a  foot's  space 
throughout  the  theatre  remained  unoccupied.  Hun- 
dreds never  even  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  stage. 

The  impressibility  and  vivacity  of  the  Irish  char- 
acter are  peculiarly  inspiring  to  actors,  and  call  forth 
their  highest  powers.  No  audience  ever  responded 
more  instantaneously  to  noble  and  heroic  sentiments, 
or  was  more  quickly  penetrated  by  touches  of 
genuine  pathos,  or  evinced  a  keener  sense  of  the 
humorous. 

Mortimer's  delineations  always  excited  their  wild- 
est enthusiasm.  We  will  not  attempt  to  describe 
the  boisterous  exhibition  of  delight  with  which  he 
was  saluted  when  he  stood  before  them  as  Damon. 
To  a  looker  on  it  seemed  as  though  their  manifesta- 
tions could  only  end  in  the  galleries  descending 
upon  the  stage,  and  bearing  him  about  on  their 
shoulders.  But  the  tragedian  never  once  bent  his 
stately  head  while  they  "  vented  clamor  from  their 
throats."  His  lips  curled  with  a  slight  expression 
of  scorn.  If  ambition  had  ever  made  him  covet 
these  evidences  of  popularity,  they  became  worth- 
less in  his  eyes  the  moment  they  were  gained. 

"  Long  life  to  the  star  of  the  world  !  " 

"  Blessings  be  on  all  the  bones  of  his  body,  and 
all  the  hairs  of  his  head  !  " 

"  Never  was  the  likes  of  him  seen  !  " 

These,  and  similar  ejaculations,  mingled  with  the 
uproar. 

At  the  first  majestic  uplifting  of  his  hand,  silence 
fell  upon   all   around,  like   the   sudden   stilling   of 


338  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

tempestuous  waves.  He  spoke ;  the  words  rolled 
from  his  lips  in  a  gush  of  mellifluous  sound,  that 
seemed  the  mingling  of  trumpet  and  bugle  tones ; 
they  stirred  or  melted,  fired  or  calmed,  the  hearers 
at  will. 

Mortimer's  imposing  presence  dignified,  ennobled, 
idealized,  the  most  insignificant  character  he  as- 
sumed ;  but  to  such  a  role  as  the  self-sacrificing, 
warlike  Damon  he  imparted  a  heroic  grandeur  in- 
describable. At  one  moment  he  plunged  into  the 
profoundest  abysses  of  passion,  and  brought  their 
strong  workings  to  view  ;  the  next,  his  melting  ten- 
derness struck  the  rock  of  stoniest  hearts,  and  sent 
its  waters  to  the  subdued  eyes. 

Damon's  soul-harrowing  parting  with  his  wife,  his 
fury  with  his  freedman,  his  thrilling  meeting  with 
Pythias  upon  the  scaffold,  were  almost  terrific  in 
their  sublime  intensity. 

Yet,  while  the  actor  seemed  to  hold  the  heart- 
strings of  the  audience  in  his  hands,  while  he 
strained  them  to  agony  at  pleasure,  he  either  was 
not  or  affected  not  to  be  moved  by  his  own  person- 
ation. He  compelled  those  who  occupied  the  stage 
with  him  to  believe  that  his  most  powerfully  por- 
trayed emotion  was  a  counterfeit,  the 

"  painting  of  a  sorrow, 
A  face  without  a  heart.'.' 

While  the  spectators  cheered  until  they  were  hoarse, 
the  stoical  tragedian,  in  a  tone  of  irony,  uttered 
some  humorous  sarcasm,  which  excited  the  uncon- 
trollable merriment  of  the  players, —  a  mirth  which  it 
was  often  difficult  to  conceal. 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  339 

From  the  same  audience  who  were  so  clamorous 
in  their  demonstrations  to  the  tragedian  Elma  won 
a  silent  respect  even  more  flattering,  and  to  her 
peculiar  temperament  far  more  acceptable.  They 
never  broke  out  into  noisy  admiration  until  she  had 
passed  from  their  presence.  They  never  addressed 
to  her  an  audible  criticism,  eulogium,  or  comment. 

Calanthe  is  a  subordinate  character,  yet  one  that 
enlists  sympathy. 

It  is  difficult  to  define  the  exact  order  of  Elma's 
scenic  talents.  Her  performances  lacked  vivid  color- 
ing. They  might  have  been  deemed  cold,  but  it 
was  a  marble  coldness  of  statuesque  beauty ;  they 
were  carved,  as  it  were,  in  alabaster,  but  sculpture 
was  not  dumb.*  She  never  rose  out  of  herself,  but 
she  filled  her  assumed  characters  with  her  own  in- 
separable loveliness.  If  they  were  narrow,  she 
seemed  to  compress  her  nature  to  enter  into  their 
contracted  limits,  reminding  the  beholders  of  a  but- 
terfly struggling  to  force  itself  into  an  empty  chrysa- 
lis-shell, but  failing  to  hide  its  bright,  tinted  wings. 

She  never  descended  to  stage  trickeries,  nor  ever, 
like  Mortimer,  courted  the  applause  which  she  dis- 
dained. 

The  extreme  polish  of  her  delivery  lent  one  great 
charm  to  her  personations.  Never  was  the  Saxon 
tongue  more  musically  syllabled  than  by  her  lips. 
Every  word  was  cut  fine  and  sharp,  and  invested 
with  a  value  and  a  meaning  which  betokened  intel- 
lect, though  unallied  with  ardor. 

*  "  Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 
And  sculpture  to  be  dumb." 


340  THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

The  much-abused  practice  of  flinging  bouquets  at 
the  feet  of  favorite  performers  had  not,  in  those  days, 
reached  a  height  of  absurdity.  A  floral  token  might 
fall  upon  the  stage  without  awakening  the  suspicion 
that  this  was  only  a  portion  of  the  performance,  pre- 
pared by  the  manager,  possibly  by  the  receiver.  In 
the  first  act,  while  Damon  and  Pythias  were  con- 
versing, Calanthe  stole  in  upon  them.  The  instant 
she  appeared,  a  couple  of  bouquets  dropped  upon 
the  stage.  The  one  was  a  magnificent  collection  of 
exotics  ;  the  other,  a  bunch  of  woodland  violets,  the 
stems  of  which  were  confined  by  a  golden  arrow. 

The  representative  of  Pythias  gathered  up  the 
flowers,  and  presented  them  to  Elma.  Mortimer's 
gaze  was  fastened  upon  her  as  she  received  them. 
He  detected  the  involuntary  direction  of  her  eyes, 
though  the  look  was  as  brief  as  a  flash.  That  glance 
had  sought  the  stage-box.  In  the  seats  nearest  to 
the  stage  sat  young  Lord  Oranmore,  and  his  relative, 
Leonard  Edmonton.  The  fiery  eyes  of  the  tragedian 
rested  upon  the  countenance  of  the  nobleman  with 
an  expression  which  might  have  been  interpreted 
into  a  wrathful  menace.  Then  he  turned  them  again 
upon  Elma.  The  bouquets  were  in  her  hands,  but 
her  face  was  innocently  raised  to  that  of  Pythias, 
who  regarded  her,  saying, 

"  By  the  birth 
Of  Venus  when  she  rose  out  of  the  sea, 
And  with  her  smile  did  fill  the  Grecian  isles 
With  everlasting  verdure,  she  was  not, 
Fresh  from  the  soft  creation  of  the  wave, 
More  beautiful  than  thou  !  " 


THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  341 

Mortimer's  fierce  look  gradually  changed  to  one  of 
trustful  confidence. 

We  pass  over  the  stirring  action  of  the  play,  which 
abounds  in  fine  situations. 

When  the  curtain  fell,  Elma  found  her  mother,  at- 
tired as  Mrs.  Malaprop,  seated  in  the  green-room. 
Her  antiquated  attendant,  Winifred,  stood  fanning 
her.  The  members  of  the  company  crowded  around, 
with  welcomes  and  kind  inquiries. 

A  gleam  of  the  olden  light  "  fired  her  fading  eye." 
Departed  vigor  returned  to  her  enfeebled  frame,  and 
to  the  voice,  so  faint  and  hollow  a  few  hours  before, 
its  clear,  far-sounding  tone  was  restored. 

The  sensations  of  the  aged  actress,  on  the  eve  of 
her  farewell,  were  fitly  expressed  in  the  touching 
adieu  delivered  by  John  Kemble  but  a  few  years 
previous : 

"  As  the  worn  war-horse,  at  the  trumpet's  sound, 
Erects  his  mane,  and  neighs,  and  paws  the  ground, 
Disdains  the  ease  his  generous  lord  assigns, 
And  longs  to  rush  on  the  embattled  lines, 
So  I,  your  plaudits  ringing  in  mine  ear, 
Can  scarce  sustain  to  think  our  parting  near  ! 
To  think  my  scenic  hour  forever  past, 
And  that  these  valued  plaudits  are  my  last !  "  * 

Elma  could  only  spend  a  moment  at  her  mother's 
side.  The  young  actress  was  allowed  but  a  brief 
space  to  exchange  her  Grecian  costume  for  the  mod- 
ern adornments  of  Lydia  Languish. 

As  the  comedy  of  "  The  Rivals  "  is  deficient  in  a 
knave,  Mr.  Ruthven's  labors  for  the  night  ended 
with  Dionysius.    The  accomplished  stage  villain  was 

*  Walter  Scott. 

29 


342  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

metamorphosed  into  the  most  worthy  and  devoted 
of  husbands. 

The  welcome  which  the  audience  bestowed  on 
Mrs.  Ruthven  might  almost  have  been  said  to  sur- 
pass their  tornado-like  greeting  of  the  half-idolized 
tragedian.  It  was  not  received  by  her  with  Morti- 
mer's scornful  hauteur. 

"  Blessings  be  wid  ye  !  " 

"  The  best  of  luck  to  ye  !  " 

"Long  life  to  ye!''  resounded  on  every  side,  at 
her  oft-repeated  obeisances. 

The  Dogberry-like  misapplications  of  Mrs.  Mal- 
aprop,  who  asserts  that  "if  she  reprehends  any- 
thing in  the  world,  it  is  the  use  of  her  oracular 
tongue  and  a  nice  derangement  of  epitaphs,"  never 
elicited  heartier  merriment. 

As  the  play  progressed,  it  became  apparent  that 
Mrs.  Ruthven's  suddenly  restored  powers  were  but 
the  bright  flashes  of  life's  expiring  flame.  During 
the  fifth  act  she  could  not  stand  without  support. 
She  leaned  heavily  on  the  arms  of  the  performers 
who  chanced  to  be  nearest  to  her ;  and  if  the  exi- 
gences of  the  play  required  them  to  alter  their  sit- 
uations, others  took  their  place.  Every  moment  she 
grew  feebler,  until  her  limbs  wholly  refused  their 
office.  She  was  placed  in  a  chair,  and  remained 
seated  during  the  final  scene. 

The  actors,  regardless  of  the  parts  they  were  rep- 
resenting, gathered  affectionately  around  her,  fan- 
ning her,  bathing  her  brow,  making  her  inhale  pun- 
gent odors. 

The  comedy  was  hurried  to  its  conclusion.  The 
curtain  fell.     The  audience  had  received  the  impres- 


THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  343 

sion  that  their  favorite  was  on  the  verge  of  a  faint- 
ing-fit, produced  by  fatigue.  After  a  few  moments 
of  compassionate  silence,  the  exhausted  actress  re- 
ceived the  usual  summons,  and  the  eager  crowd 
awaited  her  last  adieu. 

Mr.  Ruthven  placed  the  paper  upon  which  the 
address  was  inscribed  in  her  hands.  She  endeavored 
to  rise,  but  in  vain. 

"  Do  not  make  the  attempt,"  remonstrated  Morti- 
mer, who  had  hastened  to  her  side  the  instant  the 
curtain  fell.  "  Sit  still,  just  as  you  are  ;  let  the  cur- 
tain be  raised,  but  do  not  try  to  stand." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  smiled  consent. 

Elma  stood  beside  her  mother's  chair,  as  the  cur- 
tain was  slowly  lifted-  to  the  expectant  multitude. 
One  loud  peal  was  followed  by  a  silence  so  profound 
that  the  hard-drawn  breath  of  the  suffering  actress 
was  distinctly  audible.  Every  ear  was  strained  to 
catch  the  last  words  they  might  ever  hear  from  those 
lips  by  which  they  had  so  often  been  charmed. 
There  was  a  strange,  nervous  twitching  about  the 
mouth,  in  its  desperate  effort  to  articulate.  The  eyes, 
that  wandered  slowly  around  the  theatre  with  a  long, 
last  look  of  regret,  grew  filmy  and  glassy.  The  face 
had  become  thin,  sharp,  and  ghastly,  within  a  few 
hours.  The  paper  dropped  from  the  powerless  hand. 
The  head  drooped  slowly  to  one  side,  and  was  caught 
by  Elma,  who  had  fallen  upon  her  knees  by  her 
mother's  chair. 

A  voice  reached  the  audience  from  behind  the 
scenes :  u  Let  fall  the  curtain  ;  they  will  never  hear 
her  speak  again  !  " 


344  THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

Every  one  recognized  the  deep,  sonorous  tones  of 
Mortimer. 

Many  and  many  a  sob  broke  the  solemn  stillness, 
as  the  curtain,  like  a  pall,  slowly  descended,  and 
shut  out  mother  and  daughter ;  one  of  them  for  the 
last  time  —  for  this,  her  place,  would  never  know  her 
more  ! 


CHAPTER    II. 

Elmo's  Attributes.  —  Divine  Providence.  —  A  Trustful  Spirit. 
—  The  Death-Bed  and  Betrothal.  —  The  Box  of  Mementos.  — 
A  Confidence  Postponed. Mortimer's  Departure.  —  With- 
ered Violets.  —  Change  in  the  Stage  Villain.  —  Expiring 
Faculties. — An  Irish  Absentee. — Lord  Oranmore  and  Leonard 
Edmonton.  —  Their  Visit  to  Elma.  —  Discussion  between  the 
Nobleman  and  Student  of  Divinity.  —  The  Portrait.  — Elmo's 
Titled  Suitor.  —  An  Offer.  —  Reply  of  the  Actress. 

For  nearly  a  week  Mrs.  Ruthven  lay  in  a  semi- 
stupor. 

Elma's  filial  love  proclaimed  its  strength  and 
depth  by  her  thoughtful,  all-anticipating,  untiring  de- 
votion, as  it  had  never  done  by  words.  Her  nature 
was  undemonstrative.  She  ever  shunned  the  display 
of  emotion,  however  real.  Her  profoundest,  tender- 
est  feelings  were  always  voiceless.  Her  character 
had  a  strong  affinity  to  that  of  Lear's  gentle  daughter. 
Cordelia-like,  her  love  was  "richer  than  her  tongue," 
nor  could  she  "heave  her  heart  into  her  mouth,"  and 
make  boast  of  its  pulsations.  Even  her  sorrow  re- 
coiled from  outward  show.  She  might  have  said, 
with  Hermione, 

"lam  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are  ;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew 
Perchance  shall  dry  your  sympathies  ;  but  I  have 
That  honorable  grief  lodged  here,  that  burns 
Worse  than  tears  drown." 


346  THE      UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

Those  who  beheld  her  ministering,  with  unruffled 
brow,  tearless  eyes,  and  tranquil  mien,  to  a  dying 
mother,  might  have  deemed  her  deficient  in  that  very 
attribute  which  she  possessed  to  the  highest  degree. 

Why  was  it  that  life's  strange  or  sad  mutations 
stirred  not,  overcame  not  her,  as  they  overwhelmed 
stronger,  prouder,  more  aspiring  spirits  ?  Her  ssgis 
was  heaven-descended,  and  against  it  the  powers  of 
earth  could  not  prevail.  In  her  perfect  trust  to  the 
Divine  Providence  whose  invisible  agency,  like  the 
penetrative  atmosphere,  pervades  all  creation ;  the 
workings  of  whose  secret  springs,  hourly  made  man- 
ifest, redeem  life's  humblest  trifles  from  insignifi- 
cance ;  the  Providence  which  watches  over  "  the 
falling  of  a  sparrow,"  which  "  shapes  our  ends,  rough- 
hew  them  as  we  will,"  —  in  that  trust  lay  her  might. 
She  felt  that  absolute  reliance  is  the  condition  of  re- 
ceiving angelic  influences  —  that  they  are  attracted  by 
the  trusting  spirit,  can  approach  and  enter  in  where 
Faith  opens  the  door,  but  have  no  power  to  pierce 
the  barrier  of  unbelief ;  she  knew  that  to  live  in  ac- 
cordance to  the  laws  of  natural  and  spiritual  order  is 
to  float  on  the  divine  current  which  bears  all  upon 
its  tide  to  a  haven  of  peace.  Tossed  by  the  storm- 
iest sea,  her  eyes  ever  looked  beyond  the  hour,  and 
beheld  the  beacon  of  promise  shining  in  the  distance 
—  ay,  through  the  gloom  of  sorrow's  darkest  night. 
The  placid,  daily  beauty  of  her  life*  could  not  be  ruf- 
fled or  conquered  by  circumstance,  because  she 
ignored  the  existence  of  chance.  Such  a  being  could 
never  become  the  sport  of  fate,  a 


/ 


.     "  pipe  for  Fortune's  finger, 
To  sound  what  stop  she  please." 


THE      UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  34  f 

Elma  sat  musing  beside  her  mother's  couch,  pon- 
dering over  such  reflections  as  we  have  just  penned. 
She  looked  up,  after  a  long  abstraction,  and  saw  the 
invalid's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face.  A  smile  parted 
the  livid  lips.  It  was  the  first  look  of  intelligence 
that  had  lighted  her  countenance  since  the  hour  when 
she  fell  into  slumberous  insensibility.  For  a  few 
seconds  Elma  moved  not,  nor  uttered  a  word.  Mother 
and  child  spoke  to  each  other's  hearts  with  their  eyes 
alone. 

"  You  know  me,  my  mother  ?  "  at  length  Elma 
asked,  in  a  low,  loving  voice. 

Mrs.  Kuthven  was  still  speechless,  nor  could  she 
reply  by  the  affirmative  motion  of  her  head  ;  but  the 
lids  of  her  dim  eyes  closed  and  opened  again,  and 
her  smile  grew  brighter  ;  these  gave  assent. 

Elma,  without  turning  her  face  from  her  mother, 
rose,  and  opened  the  door  of  the  adjacent  apartment. 
There  sat  the  aged  actor  and  the  tragedian. 

Mortimer  was  expected  to  fulfil  an  engagement  in 
Liverpool  two  nights  after  his  appearance  at  the 
farewell  of  Mrs.  Ruthven.  The  following  curt  epistle 
conveyed  to  the  infuriated  manager  a  change  of 
plans. 

"  You  will  not  see  me  on  Monday.  Name  dam- 
ages. Gerald  Mortimer." 

"  My  father,"  said  Elma,  "  will  you  come  in  ?  My 
mother  seems  quite  conscious  again." 

Mr.  Ruthven  and  Mortimer  hastened  into  the  room. 

The  filmy  eyes  of  the  invalid  became  clearer  as 
they  rested  upon  them.     The  old  man  embraced  her 


348  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

with  deep  emotion,  and  laid  his  withered,  tear-stained 
visage  on  the  pillow  beside  hers. 

It  was  a  strange  sight  to  behold  the  being  who  had 
portrayed  stern  and  ruthless  villains  until  he  cheated 
an  audience  into  believing  that  he  had  himself  no 
sense  of  natural  ties,  no  tenderness,  no  heart,  now 
playing  the  woman  with  his  aged  eyes  ! 

Mortimer  had  reverently  taken  the  hand  of  the 
sufferer,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  She  feebly  stretched 
out  her  other  hand  to  receive  Elma's,  then  laid  the 
hand  of  her  child  in  that  of  Mortimer,  clasping  both 
together  with  a  look  the  import  of  which  was  unmis- 
takable. Mortimer  sank  upon  his  knees,  and  drew 
down  Elma  beside  him.  There  was  a  silent  benison 
on  the  face  of  the  dying  woman  —  the  blessing  which 
a  mother  bestows  upon  her  betrothed  children.  That 
expression  remained  stamped  upon  her  countenance. 

The  affianced  pair  still  knelt  with  their  united  hands 
yet  clasped  in  hers,  as  she  sank  to  sleep  ;  yes,  to 
sleep,  for  her  breathing  stirred  a  snowy  lock  of  the 
head  that  lay  beside  her.  And  now  the  silvery  threads 
moved  less  and  less  —  now  they  glittered  motionless 
on  the  pillow.  The  hand  which  grasped  that  of  her 
daughter  and  of  the  son  she  had  chosen  became  a 
bond  of  ice.     0,  most  sad  prognostic  ! 

"  She  is  gone  !  "  said  Elma,  in  a  solemn  whisper. 
"  Support  my  father !  " 

11  Our  father,  Elma !  She  has  confided  you  to  me, 
—  mine  own,  mine  forever !  "  answered  Mortimer. 
And  Elma,  who  could  not  misinterpret  her  mother's 
dying  wish,  recoiled  not. 

We  will  not  dwell  upon  the  ceremonies  that  con- 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  349 

sign  the  soul's  unjewelled  casket  to  its  native  earth. 
In  spite  of  reason,  they  are  fraught  with  bitterest 
anguish  to  all  mourners,  even  to  those  who  feel 
assured  that*"  life's  true  receptacle  "  descends  not 

"  To  the  dark  mould,  where  sods  above  it  close  ! " 

who  do  not  blindly 

"  Confound  this  mouldering  dust 
With  the  true  person  —  with  the  inner  form 

Which  gave  the  outward  all  it  had  of  fair  ; 
Which  is  no  kindred  of  the  worm, 

No  warrant  for  despair."* 

Mortimer  had  taken  his  place  beside  the  bereaved 
husband  as  an  acknowledged  son. 

Elma's  countenance  wore  throughout  a  serene 
mournfulness ;  her  grief  never  once  found  vent  in 
loud  lamentation. 

A  week  passed  on. 

Elma  sat  poring  over  a  box  of  treasured  memen- 
tos which  she  had  gathered  up  from  her  childhood. 

"  I  have  come  to  say  farewell/*  said  Mortimer, 
entering  the  room. 

She  closed  down  the  lid  with  unusual  abruptness. 

"  You  did  not  tell  us  that  you  were  about  to  leave/" 
she  remarked. 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  it  myself.  You  know  I  am 
a  creature  of  impulse,  and  often  cannot  attempt  to 
account  for  my  own  sudden  fancies.  I  start  for  Liv- 
erpool in  an  hour,  and  shall  try  to  satisfy  Wilcox  by 
acting  a  night  or  two  for  him.'7 

Perhaps  Mortimer  did  not  peruse  Elma's  counte- 

*  Epes  Sargent. 
30 


350  THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

nance  aright,  but  he  imagined  that  she  looked,  at 
that  moment,  more  cheerful  than  of  late. 

"  Elma,  dearest,  this  is  no  fitting  season  to  talk  to 
you  of  my  joy  in  the  promised  possession  of  the  hand 
your  dying  mother  placed  in  mine  —  " 

Elma  looked  at  him  with  such  deprecating  eyes 
that  he  checked  himself;  then  added:  ■"  I  will  not 
talk  to  you  of  plans  for  the  future  ;  but,  Elma,  there 
is  one  subject  to  which  I  am  bound  to  allude ;  I  ought 
not  to  leave  you  without.  You  divine  the  topic,  do 
you  not  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"A  man  has  no  right  to  conceal  what  nearly  con- 
cerns himself  from  his  affianced  bride ;  yet  it  must 
cost  me  dear  to  repeat  the  history  to  which  your 
mother  listened  —  with  which  she  was  content;  for, 
after  hearing  it,  she  bestowed  her  child  upon 
me." 

"  I  do  not  ask  to  hear  that  which  it  will  pain  you 
to  relate." 

"  Generous  Elma  !  I  thank  you  for  this  confidence. 
I  may  postpone  the  hour,  then  ?  You  will  be  satis- 
fied with  the  assurance  that  there  is  no  blemish  upon 
the  name  which  I  ask  you  to  share,  and  which  I 
have  only  renounced  for  a  season.  The  one  I  now 
bear  is  assumed.  My  own  befitted  not  a  profes- 
sion to  which  I  was  not  born.  I  do  not  mean  that 
I  was  destined  for  any  other.  Idleness  was  one 
of  my  inheritances  —  the  one  of  which  I  grew  most 
weary.  In  my  early  youth  a  teaching  of  that  im- 
mortal bard  who  can  inform  the  world  struck  deep 
root  in  my  mind.     The  words  are  these  : 


I 


THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  351 

*  What  is  a  man, 
If  his  chief  good  and  market  of  his  time 
Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed  ? —  A  beast, —  no  more. 
Sure  he  that  made  us  with  such  large  discourses, 
Looking  before,  and  after,  gave  us  not 
That  capability  and  godlike  reason 
To  rust  in  us  unused  ! ' 

Those  lines  converted  a  worldling  drone  into  an 
actor  ;  for  I  had  always  that  passion  for  the  stage 
which  you  cannot  comprehend.  Need  I  tell  you 
more  ?  w 

"  No  more." 

"  Are  you  satisfied  —  quite  satisfied,  Elma  ?  M 

"With  your  history?  —  Yes.  I  believe  that  no 
blot  can  attach  itself  to  your  fair  fame." 

"I  did  not  mean  that;  but  our  relationship  to 
each  other  will  be  a  source  of  joy  to  you, —  our  hearts 
will  make  no  discords  ?  When  time's  potent  balm 
has  soothed  the  poignancy  of  your  present  sorrow ; 
when  I  return  to  claim  you  —  " 

"Pray ! n That  single  word  broke  from  Elma's 

lips  so  supplicatingly  that  Mortimer  ceased. 

11  Enough  ;  —  I  am  content.  '  How  poor  are  they 
that  have  not  patience  ! '  I  was  a  selfish  brute  to 
press  this  subject  upon  you  at  such  a  moment.  Nor 
should  I  ask  for  words  or  assurances  from  such  a 
woman  as  you  are.  You  bear  too  strong  a  likeness 
to  her  of  whom  the  brave,  blunt  old  Kent  declared 

*  Nor  are  those  empty-hearted  whose  low  sound 
Reverbs  no  hollo wness.' 

Farewell ! " 


352  THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

He  stooped  over  her,  his  lips  lightly  touched  her 
smooth  forehead ;  and,  without  another  word,  he 
departed. 

Why  did  not  the  maidenly  blood  mount  in  confu- 
sion to  the  brow  which  received  that  unwonted  im- 
press ?  Why  did  it  become  paler  than  before,  as 
though  the  ruby  current  liad  retreated  at  the  touch  ? 
And,  now  that  he  is  gone,  why  does  Elma  clasp  her 
hands  so  tightly  together,  and  why  does  that  deep, 
agonizing  groan  break  from  her  lips  ? 

She  turns  again  to  the  box,  which  she  hastily 
closed  when  he  entered.  She  has  taken  out  a  bunch 
of  withered  violets,  confined  by  a  golden  arrow.  She 
gazes  on  them  sorrowfully  for  a  while,  then  stoops 
her  head  involuntarily,  as  if  she  would  press  them  to 
her  lips  ;  but  no, —  she  drops  the  faded  token  with  a 
shudder,  as  though  she  had  been  tempted  to  commit 
some  deadly  sin,  shuts  down  the  lid,  and  resolutely 
walks  away. 

After  the  death  of  his  beloved  partner,  Mr.  Ruth- 
ven  grew  rapidly  infirm.  A  deep  melancholy  settled 
on  his  spirit.  At  times  he  seemed  on  the  verge  of 
dotage.  The  only  relief  he  could  find  lay  in  his  pro- 
fession. But  his  scenic  powers  seemed  to  have  de- 
parted. His  villains  had  become  tame,  meek,  and 
pathetic.  They  lacked  the  diabolical  element.  His 
memory  failed.  The  prompter's  voice  could  not 
reach  his  age-dulled  ears.  Parts  with  which  he  had 
long  been  familiar  he  was  forced  to  have  copied 
in  large  characters,  and  the  pages  on  which  they 
were  inscribed  hung  upon  the  wings,  out  of  sight  of 
the  audience.      The  old  man  constantly  wandered 


THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  353 

from  his  situation  on  the  stage  to  consult  these  sus- 
pended documents. 

Sometimes  he  painted  a  speech  that  played  the 
fugitive  in  his  mind  upon  the  palms  of  his  hands,  or 
wrote  a  few  of  the  most  important  words  on  his  nails, 
erasing  one  impression  and  substituting  another 
whenever  he  made  his  exit.  Elma  was  seldom  absent 
from  his  side.  He  grew  restless  and  fretful  when  he 
missed  her. 

In  her  deportment  there  was  a  marked  and  touch- 
ing change.  Her  reserved  manner  invited  no  sym- 
pathy ;  she  never  descanted  upon  u  afflictions"  which 
were  too  heavy  to  be  borne ;  but  there  was  an 
alarmed,  troubled  expression  on  her  countenance,  as 
though  some  constant  dread  were  ever  present  to 
her  thoughts,  some  inevitable  calamity  ever  menacing 
her.  But  for  the  mild  submission  that  softened  that 
look  it  would  have  become  one  of  settled  despair. 

She  had  received  no  visitors  since  her  mother's 
decease.  One  morning  her  father  entered  her  boudoir 
most  unexpectedly,  accompanied  by  Lord  Oranmore 
and  Mr.  Edmonton.  Mr.  Ruthven  had  encountered 
them  on  his  return  from  rehearsal,  and  invited  them 
to  his  house,  where  they  were  in  the  habit  of  visit- 
ing. 

The  father  of  Lord  Oranmore  was  an  Irish  noble- 
man, who,  at  an  early  age,  abandoned  his  estates, 
and  took  up  his  residence  in  London.  In  that  me- 
tropolis one  son  and  three  daughters  were  born  and 
educated. 

It  was  through  the  representations  of  his  relative, 
the  Rev.  Erastus  Edmonton,  that  the  self-exiled  lord 
had  been  gradually  convinced  of  the  wrong  and  in- 


354  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

justice  of  an  absentee  towards  his  tenantry.  He 
hearkened,  at  length,  to  the  wailing  cry  sent  up  by 
England's  sister  country,  and  remembered  that  it 
was  his  own.  Two  years  previous  to  the  period  of 
which  we  write,  he  returned  to  his  extensive  estate 
on  the  outskirts  of  Dublin. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Edmonton,  who  was  now  a  widower, 
and  in  declining  health,  was  induced  to  exchange 
his  pastorate  for  the  lighter  duties  of  private  chap- 
lain at  the  castle.  The  living  thus  left  vacant  was 
promised  to  his  son. 

Leonard  Edmonton  had  been  educated  with  young 
Lord  Oranmore,  who,  being  an  only  son,  lacked  com- 
panionship. The  youthful  nobleman  and  his  father 
had  used  their  best  endeavors  to  induce  Leonard 
to  enter  the  army.  He  resisted  all  entreaty,  and 
became,  by  choice,  a  student  of  divinity.  But  when 
the  season  for  his  ordination  arrived,  with  unaccount- 
able capriciousness  he  postponed  the  ceremony, 
assigning  no  cause. 

Elma  greeted  Lord  Oranmore  with  dignified  cor- 
diality, then  bowed  to  Mr.  Edmonton  without  offering 
her  hand,  without  lifting  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

Here  was  a  striking  difference  in  her  salutation  of 
the  young  men.  A  casual  observer  would  have  said 
that  the  florid,  fair-haired,  dashing  young  nobleman 
so  wholly  absorbed  her  attention  that  she  had  not  a 
glance  to  bestow  upon  the  chaplain's  son.  Yet'  the 
fine  oval  of  that  mild,  thoughtful  countenance,  that 
open  brow  from  which  the  raven  locks  waved  back 
and  gave  its  loftiness  to  perfect  view,  those  singu- 
larly-dark   eyebrows   arched   over  deep  blue   eyes, 


THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  355 

those  bland,  delicately-curved  lips,  were  not  unworthy 
a  fair  lady's  note. 

Leonard  Edmonton  lacked  Lord  Oranmore's  buoy- 
ant, precipitate  manners,  but  a  polished  ease  took 
their  place. 

The  vivacious  nobleman  very  nearly  rendered  the 
conversation  a  monologue.  Mr.  Edmonton  addressed 
Elma  but  twice,  and  drew  from  her  only  monosyllabic 
replies.  The  visit  of  the  young  men  was  necessarily 
brief. 

As  they  left  the  house,  Lord  Oranmore  said  to  his 
companion,  "  What  a  cold-blooded  fellow  you  are, 
Edmonton,  —  a  perfect  north-pole  icicle  !  Even  this 
charming  creature  cannot  thaw  you.  And  yet,  it's 
odd,  when  she  was  acting  you  never  missed  one  of 
her  nights  at  the  theatre.  There  you  sat  this  morn- 
ing like  a  stock,  actually  letting  her  forget  that  you 
were  present !  " 

"  A  feat  you  never  once  performed  yourself,  I 
believe  !  "  returned  Edmonton.  His  laugh  but  half 
concealed  that  he  winced  at  the  random  thrust. 

"No,  indeed;  I  force  her  to  think  of  me,  because  I 
can't  help  thinking  of  her.  You  are  always  accusing 
me  of  hunting  after  new  fancies,  but  I  have  been 
constant  to  this  ever  since  I  first  saw  Elma  Ruthven  ; 
—  pne  whole  year  !  I  then  became  infatuated  with 
her  personations  ;  but  herself  is  far  more  charming 
than  all  the  poetic  and  dramatic  angels  she  assumes. 
Now  it  is  the  woman  that  I  am  over  head  and  ears  in 
love  with." 

'  -  In  love  with  ! ' '  Edmonton  ejaculated  those  words 
in  a  tone  of  horror.    "  And  your  intentions  are  —  " 

"  Well,  really,  I  never  ask  myself  what  they  are. 


356  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  have  any  fixed  intentions  at  all. 
I  leave  the  future  to  bring  forth  what  it  will." 

"■  But  if  you  should  find  that  El  ma  Ruthven  returns 
your  affection  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  deeply  indebted  to  her,  shall  feel 
highly  complimented,  greatly  delighted,  and  —  as  I 
said  before,  let  the  future  bring  forth  whatever  it 
has  in  store.  I  suppose  a  man  may  be  pardoned  for 
a  little  vanity,  if  he  discover  himself  to  be  an  object 
of  consideration  to  this  divine  creature,  whom  destiny 
has  rendered  an  actress." 

"  Elma  Ruthven,  in  her  chaste  loveliness,  is  not  a 
woman  whose  name  should  be  irreverently  uttered. 
Nor  can  her  character  be  lightly  estimated  by  any 
one  who  has  been  granted  the  privilege  of  knowing 
her  in  private.  The  man  who  is  crowned  with  her 
love  will  become  the  monarch  of  a  heavenly  realm, 
and  may  well  be  proud ;  but  that  her  preference 
should  excite  vanity,  in  the  sense  which  you  seem  to 
imply,  is  a  thought  as  humiliating  to  her  as  it  is 
unworthy  of  you." 

"  Hey  day,  Edmonton  !  have  you  just  waked  up  ? 
I  never  heard  you  launch  out  in  her  praise  before. 
Why,  you  are  not  in  love  with  her  yourself,  are  you  ? 
I  shall  begin  to  think  it  is  this  actress  who  is  keep- 
ing that  living  vacant,  and  has  postponed  a  certain 
ordination  for  which  you  were  duly  prepared.  You 
were  afraid  of  disgracing  your  cloth,  —  is  that  it  ? 
What  has  fired  you  so  suddenly  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  was  a  little  warm,"  returned  Edmon- 
ton, relapsing  into  his  usual  quietude  ;  "  but  you 
know  what  reverence  I  have  for  womanhood  ;  I  can- 
not bear  to  hear  the  name  of  such  a  woman  as  Elma 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  35T 

Ruthven  lightly  used,  or  the  rich  gift  of  her  affec- 
tions (which  can  only  be  bestowed  accompanied  by 
her  hand)  rated  so  carelessly.     That  is  my  excuse/ 7 

"  No  harm  done,  Leonard  ;  only  don't  grow  sanc- 
timonious before  the  time.  No  offence  in  talking  of 
an  actress  as  though  she  were  flesh  and  blood,  is 
there  ?  "  ' 

"  Don't  separate  the  flesh  and  blood  from  the  spirit 
that  animates  and  gives  them  life,  which  makes  the 
pulses   temperately  beat   in   response   to  all  noble 

aspirations,  making  such  holy  music  as  Elma's 

but  here  comes  your  groom.  At  what  a  furious  rate 
he  is  driving  those  horses  !  " 

"  Like  their  master,  they  object  to  the  curb,  even 
though  the  bridle  be  held  by  a  friendly  hand,"  re- 
plied Lord  Oranmore,  laughing.  u  Are  you  going 
directly  to  the  castle  ?  " 

Edmonton  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  Then  jump  in  the  phaeton,  and  spend  a  little  of 
your  judicious  whip  and  bridling  upon  the  horses 
yourself.  Your  lessons  will  do  them  good.  Wish  I 
could  say  as  much  for  their  master  !  Terence,  I  shall 
not  dine  at  home.  Bring  the  horses  to  the  club  by 
ten  to-night." 

The  chaplain's  son  drove  off,  evincing  no  little 
skill  as  he  curbed  the  fiery  steeds. 

Lord  Oranmore  turned  his  steps  to  the  principal 
bookseller's  shop  in  Dublin. 

"  I  must  have  some  pretext  for  the  visit,"  he  said 
to  himself,  as  he  entered. 

He  tossed  over  a  number  of  richly-bound  annuals, 
and  at  last  selected  and  purchased  a  volume  of  stan- 
dard plays,  which  contained  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Ruth- 


358  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

ven  as  the  Widow  Rackett.  The  clerk  was  ordered 
to  follow  him  with  the  book,  as  he  purposed  to 
deliver  it  in  person. 

It  was  conveyed  into  Elma's  presence.  She  was 
alone.  Lord  Oranmore  pointed  out  the  portrait ;  said 
that  he  met  with  it  accidentally ;  that  he  found  the 
likeness  of  Mrs.  Ruthven  so  very  striking  he  could 
not  refrain  from  bringing  it  himself,  that  he  might 
witness  her  daughter's  pleasure.  He  begged  that 
the  volume  might  be  left  for  her  father's  acceptance. 

Lord  Oranmore  was  very  sorry,  he  added,  not  to 
find  Mr.  Ruthven  at  home  ;  no,  he  corrected  himself, 
he  would  be  frank,  and  say  that  he  was  rejoiced  ;  for 
there  was  a  subject  upon  which  he  wished  to  converse 
with  Elma.  Time,  he  declared,  had  dragged  very 
heavily  with  him  during  the  four  weeks  in  which  he 
had  not  beheld  her.  What  was  life  out  of  her  pres- 
ence ?  Would  that  his  life  could  be  passed  at  her 
side  !  Existence  would  be  elysium.  And  could  not 
this  be  ?  Would  she  not  give  him  hope  that  it 
might  be  ? 

Elma  made  a  fruitless  attempt  to  check  him.  In 
spite  of  her  chilling  mien,  his  ardent  temperament 
hurried  him  on. 

There  was  a  touch  of  regal  scorn  in  the  look 
which  she  turned  upon  him,  as  she  replied : 

"  Is  it  because  I  bear  the  name  of  an  actress,  my 
lord,  that  you  have  ventured  to  address  me  thus  ? 
What  in  my  conduct  has  ever  given  you  the  right  ? 
I  have  only  to  request  that  you  will  leave  me  to  the 
privacy  upon  which  you  have  intruded." 

Lord  Oranmore  in  an  instant  saw  his  error,  and  at 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  359 

that  moment  she  became  more  dear  than  ever.  He 
would  not  lose  her  thus. 

1 '  Miss  Ruthven,  —  beautiful  Elma !  How  you  have 
misunderstood  me  !  You  could  not,  for  a  second, 
imagine  me  capable  of  insulting  you  !  How  often 
has  the  stage  given  up  its  heroines,  that  coronets 
might  gain  additional  lustre  by  encircling  their 
brows  !     I  ask  to  place  one  upon  yours, 

1  Where  partial  nature  hath  already  bound 
A  brighter  circlet,  radiant  Beauty's  own.' 

Let  me  rob  the  public  to  enrich  myself.  You  have 
no  love  for  the  stage  ;  will  you  not  abandon  it  for 
my  sake  ?  " 

"No." 

u  Why  is  your  manner  so  frigid  ?  Have  I  uncon- 
sciously offended  beyond  pardon  ?  " 

"  No  woman  has  the  right  to  be  offended  by  the 
honorable  addresses  of  an  honorable  man.  But  your 
offer  is  one  that  I  cannot  accept.  I  should  not,  were 
I  free  ;  I  cannot,  for  my  hand  is  already  promised." 
The  last  words  Elma  uttered  with  a  violent  effort. 

Lord  Oranmore  started  up  in  dismay. 

Elma  silenced  the  remonstrance  on  his  lips.  "  It 
was  the  wish  of  my  dying  mother, —  that  must  be 
sacred.  My  lord,  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  put  an 
end  to  this  interview."  She  moved  towards  the 
door. 

"  One  moment,  Elma.  I  cannot  yield  up  all 
hope — M     But  Elma  had  passed  from  the  room. 

"  I  will  not  relinquish  her  !  "  exclaimed  the  im- 
petuous young  nobleman,  as  he  darted  out  of  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Lord  Oranmore' s  Startling  Communication  to  Leonard. — Rage 
of  the  Noble  Father  at  the  Proposed  Alliance  of  his  Son.  — 
The  Unwilling  Ambassador. — The  Chaplain's  Visit  to  the 
Actress.  —  A  Disappointment.  —  Elma's  Declaration.  —  Mr. 
Ruthven's  Chosen  Son. —  Unwavering  Trust.  —  Mortimer's 
Return  to  Dublin.  —  Enthusiastic  Attachment  of  the  Company. 
—  Singular  Traits. — Lavish  Charities.  —  Mr.  Ruthven's 
Disclosure  to  Mortimer. — A  Vision  of  Elmo's  Future. — 
Performance  of  Gisippus.  —  Mental  Anguish  of  the  Trage- 
dian.— The  Frantic  Improvisation.  —  Lord  Oranmore  in  the 
Boxes.  —  Mortimer's  Exit  from  the  Theatre.  —  Sudden  Disap- 
pearance. 

Ingenuous  and  reckless  by  nature,  Lord  Oranmore 
made  no  concealment  of  his  feelings  and  intentions. 
That  evening  he  gave  Edmonton  an  animated  account 
of  his  second  interview  with  Elma.  They  were  sit- 
ting in  the  theatre  at  the  time.  The  play  represented 
was  Sheridan  Knowles'  tragedy  of  The  Wife.  Elma 
was  to  make  her  first  appearance  since  the  death  of 
her  mother.  Edmonton's  attention  seemed  rivetted 
upon  the  performance.  But  when  Lord  Oranmore 
repeated  Elma's  declaration  that  her  hand  was  prom- 
ised, his  friend  gave  a  violent  start.  Amazement — 
what  else  could  it  be  ?  —  lent  to  the  eyes  which  he 
fixed  upon  the  speaker  a  strange,  lurid  glare.  The 
words  "Not  possible  !  "  issued  involuntarily  from 
his  ashy  lips. 

"  She  told  me  so  herself,"  replied  Lord  Oranmore 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  361 

"  But  that  does  not  alter  my  resolves ;  it  has  only 
given  them  a  new  impetus.  A  woman  worth  win- 
ning and  wearing  is  worth  pursuing.  Notwithstand- 
ing this  prior  engagement,  I  believe  in  my  ultimate 
success." 

Edmonton  was  again,  to  all  appearance,  engrossed 
in  the  play.  For  the  rest  of  the  evening,  Lord  Oran- 
more  found  it  impossible  to  conquer  his  companion's 
taciturnity. 

On  the  morrow,  the  young  lord,  with  characteristic 
frankness,  —  we  might  say  daring, — made  known 
his  matrimonial  intentions  to  his  stately  father.  The 
astonishment  and  wrath  of  the  latter  could  hardly 
exceed  his  son's  anticipations.  An  angry  discussion 
ended  as  arguments  between  enraged  parents  and 
self-willed  sons  generally  conclude.  The  father 
threatened  to  disinherit  him  as  far  as  possible  (an 
entailed  estate  limited  the  paternal  power) ;  the  son 
intimated  his  willingness  to  accept  this  penalty  as 
the  price  of  following  his  own  inclinations. 

Lord  Oranmore  looked  upon  Elma's  rejection  of  his 
son  as  one  of  the  coquettish  wiles  by  which  she  pur- 
posed more  firmly  to  ensnare  him.  At  first  the  in- 
dignant nobleman  was  strongly  tempted  to  call  upon 
her  himself.  Then  he  reflected  that  his  chaplain 
would  be  a  more  suitable  person. 

This  gracious,  aged  man,  a  benign  and  charity- 
loving  Christian,  evinced  great  reluctance  to  under- 
take the  mission.  In  vain  he  protested  that  he  was 
not  qualified  to  act  in  such  matters.  The  excited 
father  would  receive  no  denial.  Mr.  Edmonton  must 
paint  to  the  young  girl  the  discord  and  misery  which 
would  be  brought  into  the  family  by  her  forced  ad- 


362  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

mission ;  must  obtain  from  her  a  promise  that  she 
would  decline  all  further  communication  with  Lord 
Oranmore. 

Elma  was  at  rehearsal  when  the  unwilling  ambas- 
sador called  at  her  father's  house.  The  clergyman 
announced  his  intention  of  waiting,  and  was  ushered 
into  the  drawing-room. 

Elma,  when  she  entered,  was  not  aware  that  the 
apartment  was  occupied.  She  stood  directly  in  front 
of  the  venerable  man,  who  had  ample  time  to  scan 
her  person  before  she  was  conscious  of  his  presence. 

He  rose  and  mentioned  his  name.  What  a  flood 
of  radiance  seemed  poured  upon  her  face  and  shone 
from  her  eyes  in  "  a  thousand  dewy  rays  "  !  There 
was  not  a  trace  of  the  usual  cold  reserve  in  her 
greeting,  as  she  seated  herself  with  unsuspicious 
confidence  by  his  side.  Her  dignified  simplicity  and 
quiet  grace  made  a  deep  impression  upon  her  guest. 

"  This  visit  no  doubt  surprises  you,  Miss  Ruthven  ? 
And  yet  some  of  your  friends,  I  believe,  now  and  then 
exchange  our  fireside  for  yours.'' 

"Yes.  Lord  Oranmore  has  been  quite  a  frequent 
visitor,  and  also  your  —  your  son,  Mr.  Edmonton." 

"  My  son  ?  Yes,  I  believe  I  have  heard  him  say 
so  ;  but  I  was  not  thinking  of  him." 

"  Not  thinking  of  him  ?  " 

Elma  echoed  the  words  internally  with  painful 
surprise.  What,  then,  was  the  object  of  his  father's 
visit  ?  The  dancing,  sparkling  lights  that  illumined 
her  countenance  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer  as  she 
mused,  and  then  were  wholly  extinguished. 

Her  reverend  guest  noticed  without  comprehend- 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  363 

ing  the  change.  After  an  embarrassing  pause,  with 
much  delicacy  he  disclosed  his  errand. 

To  the  father  of  Lord  Oranmore,  to  any  one  in  the 
world  save  the  man  who  sat  before  her,  Elma  would 
have  replied  haughtily.  But  there  was  a  subdued 
sorrow  in  her  tone  which  hardly  accorded  with  the 
language  of  her  reply. 

"  His  lordship  has  nothing  to  fear  from  me.  Un- 
welcomed  I  could  never  enter  any  family.  In  regard 
to  Lord  Oranmore,  I  would  not  unite  my  fate  to  his 
were  his  father  and  all  his  kin  humbly  to  sue  to  me. 
I  have  never  even  entertained  a  passing  preference 
for  him." 

"  I  believe  you,  my  dear  young  lady.  There  is  an 
air  of  truth  about  you  which  no  one  could  doubt. 
My  report  will  wholly  calm  the  fears  of  Lord  Oran- 
more, for  I  see  you  are  not  a  woman  who  could  be 
guilty  of  trifling.  He  did  you  wrong  in  supposing 
that  your  rejection  of  his  son  was  a  coquettish  lure 
to  enslave  him." 

"  Great  wrong.  I  am  as  proud  as  his  lordship, 
though  perhaps  in  a  different  way." 

Mr.  Edmonton  gladly  dropped  the  subject.  Though 
his  mission  was  accomplished,  he  experienced  a 
strong  inclination  to  extend  his  visit.  He  introduced 
other  topics,  and  Elma  conversed  freely.  He  found 
how  richly  her  mind  was  stored,  how  nobly  her  ac- 
tions were  guided,  and  wondered  not  at  Lord  Oran- 
more's  infatuation,  or  only  marvelled  that  the  hair- 
brained  youth  had  planted  his  hitherto  fluctuating 
affections  upon  so  worthy  a  foundation. 

At  length  the  clergyman  rose  to  depart.     He  laid 


364  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

his  hand  tenderly   on  the  head  of  the  young  girl, 
with  a  fervent  "  God  bless  you,  my  child  ! n 

Elma  knew  not  that  the  face  she  raised  to  his 
beamed  with  reverential  affection.  The  old  man  pon- 
dered for  some  time  afterwards  on  that  involuntary 
look.     It  gave  his  imagination  the  rein. 

When  Elma  informed  her  father  of  Mr.  Edmonton's 
visit,  she  also  communicated  to  him  Lord  Oranmore's 
offer,  made  on  the  day  previous,  and  her  rejection. 

Mr.  Ruthven  would  have  been  indignant  at  the 
messenger  sent  to  his  child  by  the  imperious  noble-^ 
man,  had  he  not  experienced  a  proud  satisfaction  in 
Elma's  decisive  refusal.  He  was  flattered  that  a 
man  of  illustrious  birth  had  "rivalled  for  his  daugh- 
ter ;  "  but  he  would  not  have  allowed  her  to  enter  a 
noble  family.  That  would  be  to  separate  her  from 
himself,  to  wholly  lose  her.  No  !  he  greatly  pre- 
ferred to  behold  her  the  wife  of  an  eminent  actor,  — 
above  all  others,  of  Gerald  Mortimer  !  He  told  her 
this,  in  emphatic  language. 

Elma  replied  :  "  It  is  my  chief  happiness  to  please 
you,  my  father  ;  but  let  us  not  talk  of  marriage.  That 
I  should  marry  yet  is  not  an  inevitable  necessity. 
Let  us  put  off  all  thoughts  of  it  at  present." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  urge  you,  or  to  hurry  you, 
child ;  but  it  would  be  a  joy  to  have  ■  Mortimer 
always  with  us,  —  we  are  so  sad  and  lonely  since 
your  mother  went,  and  Mortimer's  presence  is  al- 
ways exciting,  inspiring.  I  need  a  son's  aid.  No, 
we  won't  urge  you ;  but  the  sooner  the  day  comes, 
the  better,  and  no  doubt  so  Mortimer  thinks.  He 
has  been  gone  three  weeks,  and  now  he  writes  to 
apprise  me  that  he  will  be  in  Dublin  next  Monday, 


THE      UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  365 

and  will  commence  an  engagement.  Here  is  a  note 
enclosed  for  you." 

Elma  had,  perhaps,  been  overcome  by  her  inter- 
view with  Mr.  Edmonton,  for  her  head  swam,  she 
grasped  a  chair  for  support,  then  tottered  rather  than 
walked  to  the  window.     Her  father  threw  it  open. 

"  You  are  not  as  strong  as  you  were.  Your  moth- 
er's death  has  broken  down  both  of  us.  Lean  out ;  the 
air  will  revive  you.  But  you  have  not  taken  Morti- 
mer's note.  There  should  be  a  restorative  in  that. 
Break  the  seal  at  once  ;  I  will  leave  you  to  enjoy 
the  contents  uninterrupted." 

Though  her  father  left  the  room,  Elma  sat  in  pen- 
sive meditation,  with  the  note  lying  unheeded  on 
her  lap.  At  last  she  glanced  over  the  brief  lines, 
and  laid  them  aside  with  a  deep  sigh.  After  that,  she 
went  steadily  on  her  way  as  before,  ever  hoping  that 
the  patient  discharge  of  daily  duties  would  bring  re- 
pose to  her  troubled  mind.  She  was  passing  through 
a  valley  of  shadows,  groping  in  darkness  for  a  sea- 
son, but  she  never  doubted  that  light  shone  in 
the  unseen  distance.  To  fulfil  the  task  that  Heaven 
assigned  her,  was  to  attract  its  rays  to  her  obscured 
pathway. 

"  If  all  were  ours  unearned,  what  need  of  action  ? 
If  God  no  problem  set  for  our  unfolding, 
Where  were  the  joy,  the  power,  the  benefaction, 

Of  toil,  and  faith,  and  prayer,  our  spirits  moulding?  "  * 

Lord  Oranmore  sought  Elma  again,  but  was  denied 
admission  to  her  presence.  He  appealed  to  Mr. 
Ruthven,  and  learned  that  his  daughter  was  affianced 

*  Epea  Sargent. 
31 


366  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

to  Mortimer.  The  nobleman  was  not  discomfited. 
He  could  not  place  his  suit  on  an  equality  with  that 
of  an  actor  ;  he  remained  confident  that  Elma  might 
be  won. 

A  storm  delayed  the  arrival  of  the  steamer  on  the 
morning  that  Mortimer  was  to  reach  the  Irish  shores. 
It  was  near  midday  before  the  passengers  disem- 
barked at  Kingston,  and  entered  the  railway  carriages 
that  conveyed  them  to  Dublin.  __ 

The  play  for  that  evening  was  Gisippus*  the  youth- 
ful production  of  Gerald  Griffin,  a  highly-gifted  Irish 
novelist,  who,  in  spite  of  the  allurements  of  a  bril- 
liant literary  career,  grew  weary  of  the  world,  and 
entered  a  monastery  in  Cork.  There  he  died,  at  the 
age  of  thirty-five,  in  the  second  year  of  his  novitiate. 

Gisippus  was  one  of  Mortimer's  most  wonderful 
delineations. 

Rehearsal  had  been  called  at  a  much  later  hour 
than  ordinary,  in  anticipation  of  the  tragedian's  delay 
on  the  channel.  He  was,  however,  so  regardless  of 
stage  observances,  that  his  presence  at  the  theatre 
in  the  morning  was  scarcely  expected.  It  was  an 
agreeable  surprise  to  the  manager  when  Mortimer, 
soon  after  rehearsal  commenced,  walked  upon  the 
stage.  He  was  warmly  welcomed  by  the  whole  com- 
pany ;  perhaps  we  ought  to  except  Elma,  but  she 
was  never  demonstrative.  Mortimer  was  a  rare 
instance  of  a  dramatic  favorite  enthusiastically  be- 
loved by  the  players  themselves.  His  manner 
was  wholly  free  from  the  overbearing  tyranny  which 
tragic  heroes  are  accustomed  to  assume  towards 
their  inferiors.  He  treated  the  subordinates  of  the 
theatre  with  manly  courtesy,  and  an  acknowledging 


fyJJjL^iW 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  367 

remembrance  that  the  feelings  of  the  humblest  were 
entitled  to  some  consideration. 

It  was  singular  that,  while  he  totally  disregarded 
the  clamorous  approval  of  the  audience,  an  unstudied 
expression  of  delight  falling  from  the  lips  of  a  "  bearer 
of  banners,"  or  a  "  general  utility/'  imparted  a  thrill 
of  pleasure^  He  often  declared  that  actors  were  the 
only  judges  of  acting  —  the  only  true  critics.  The 
panegyrics  with  which  the  journals  teemed  he  never 
read.  He  scorned  the  "  quirks  of  blazoning  pens," 
which,  to  display  the  critic's  own  wisdom,  manufac- 
tured beauties,  or  u  shaped  faults  that  are  not,"  at 
random. 

Mortimer  dispensed  charities  with  lavish  hand.  It 
was  currently  reported  that  the  enormous  proceeds 
of  his  nightly  exertions  were  distributed  among  the 
suffering  members  of  the  profession.  He  had  freed 
many  from  the  galling  bondage  of  the  stage,  and  es- 
tablished them  in  more  congenial  employment.  Did 
space  permit,  we  might  relate  not  a  few  touching 
histories  of  the  objects  of  his  bounty. 

Upon  this  day,  in  particular,  he  listened  with  ready 
ear  to  tales  of  grief  and  want,  and  brightened  the 
dim  eyes  of  poverty  with  the  reflected  glitter  of  gold. 
He  was  happy,  and  true  happiness  yearns  to  share 
its  joyful  throbs  with  others,  to  double,  treble  them, 
by  that  communion. 

Mortimer's  manner  was  unusually  buoyant  during 
rehearsal.  At  its  conclusion,  he  accompanied  Mr. 
Kuthven  and  his  daughter  to  their  home.  Elm  a  had 
some  needful  preparations  to  make  for  the  evening, 
and  absented  herself  for  a  short  time. 

Left  alone  with  Mortimer,  Mr.  Ruthven,  with  pa- 


368  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

ternal  pride,  made  known  the  flattering  addresses  of 
Lord  Oranmore,  and  Elma's  rejection  of  his  hand. 

Every  word  struck  on  Mortimer's  ears  as  the 
poisonous  dart  of  serpent  tongues.  He  called  to 
mind  the  last  night  that  he  stood  upon  the  stage  with 
Elma,  the  direction  of  her  eyes  when  the  bouquets 
were  placed  in  her  hands ;  —  they  ha$  turned  to 
the  stage-box  where  Lord  Oranmore  sat.  Heart- 
searing,  crushing,  was  the  conviction  that  took 
strong  possession  of  his  mind.  Elma  loved  this  frivol- 
ous, sycophantic  young  nobleman  ! 

Yes,  it  must  be  so  ;  and  her  troth  to  Mortimer  had 
compelled  her  to  refuse  her  lordly  suitor.  She  loved 
him,  and  Mortimer  must  yield  her  up  !  Lord  Oran- 
more would  snatch  her  from  the  throne  before  which 
he  had  knelt  with  the  worshipping  crowd — would 
strip  from  her  brow  its  crown,  from  -her  hand  its 
sceptre,  to  discover  that  with  them  she  had  lost  the 
charms  of  which  he  was  enamored  !  He  would  trans- 
plant her  to  a  petty  conventional  sphere  of  fashionable 
frivolities,  where  she  must  play  a  cold  and  narrow 
part  upon  a  stage  where  there  is  more  acting  than 
in  the  play-house.     How  terrible  would  be  her  fate  ! 

Mortimer  dwelt  more  upon  her  probable  misery 
than  upon  his  certain  wretchedness.  For  love 
seeks  the  felicity  of  the  object  beloved,  rather  than 
its  own  joy.  From  the  heart  where  it  dwells  in 
pristine  purity  the  demon  Selfishness  is  wholly  cast 
out. 

Elma  had  no  cause  to  reenter  the  room  so  timidly ; 
she  needed  not  to  fear  being  left  alone  with  her 
lover,  nor  to  dread  an  outpouring  of  his  passionate 
devotion. 


THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  369 

Mr.  Ruthven  considerately  withdrew. 

Elma  bent  over  her  embroidery,  counting  the 
stitches  with  as  much  earnestness  as  though  there 
were  no  more  interesting  occupation  in  life.  Morti- 
mer watched  her  for  a  short  time  in  silence  ;  when 
he  spoke  it  was  upon  indifferent  subjects.  Very  soon 
he  abruptly  took  his  leave. 

Elma  did  not  see  him  again  until  they  met  at  night 
upon  the  stage. 

She  represented  Sophronia,  the  Athenian  maiden 
betrothed  to  Gisippus,  who  secretly  loves  Fulvius. 

On  the  very  morning  of  their  bridal  a  doubt  of 
Sophronia' s  affection  springs  up  in  the  mind  of  the 
noble  Gisippus.  His  magnanimity  of  soul  points 
out  but  one  course.  He  will  learn  the  truth, 
and  return  to  Sophronia  her  freedom,  if  he  discover 
that  she  is  about  to  place  in  his  an  unwilling  hand. 
Gisippus  thus  addresses  her  : 

"  Lay  your  heart  before  me, 
Naked  as  it  appears  to  your  own  thoughts, 
With  all  its  aspirations.     You  may  find 
That  I  can  act  as  worthy  and  as  free 
A  part,  as  if  I  ne'er  had  stooped  so  low, 
To  win  the  love  that  hath,  at  last,  deceived  me. 
For,  though  my  heart  doth  witness,  I  do  prize 
That  love  beyond  the  life-blood  that  flows  through  it, 
J  would  not  weigh  it  'gainst  your  happiness, 
The  throbbing  of  one  pulse  —  now  believe  and  trust  me. 

Sophronia.     You  are  too  noble  ! 

Gisippus.  No  —  no  ! 

Do  not  think  that,  Sophronia  ; 
Nor  let  your  generous  fear  to  wound  a  heart 
Too  sensitive  affect  your  confidence. 
The  rigid  schools  in  which  my  youth  was  formed 
Have  taught  my  soul  the  virtue  that  consists 


310  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

In  mastering  all  its  selfish  impulses  ! 

And,  could  I  bring  content  into  your  bosom, 

And  bid  that  care  that  pines  your  delicate  cheek, 

And  pales  its  hue  of  bloom  (fit  paradise 

For  the  revelry  of  smiles) ,  resign  his  throne  there, 

My  heart  without  a  pang  could  lose  ye  !  (Aside.)  How 

It  burns,  while  I  belie  it ! 

Soph.  I  have  heard  you 

With  wonder,  that  forbids  my  gratitude. 
How  have  you  humbled  me  !     0,  Gisippus, 
I  will  deceive  you  yet  —  for  you  shall  find, 
Although  I  cannot  practise,  yet  I  know 
What  greatness  is,  and  can  respect  it  truly  ; 
I  would  requite  your  generosity, 
And  what  I  can,  I  will.     Do  not  distrust  me 
From  any  seeming  !     I  have  plight  my  promise, 
And  it  shall  be  fulfilled. 

Gis.  My  fears  were  just,  then  ? 

Soph.     Let  them  be  banished  now  !  My  noble  monitor, 
When  I  shall  make  advantage  of  your  goodness, 
Virtue  forswear  me  !     You  have  waked  my  heart 
To  duty  and  to  honor.     They  shall  find 
An  earnest  votary  in  it  !  " 

The  audience  might  have  deemed  it  "  excellent 
dissembling/ '  but  there  was  no  acting  in  the  deep 
intensity  with  which  these  passages  were  delivered. 

The  confidence  of  Gisippus  is  restored,  and  he 
departs  to  hasten  the  preparations  for  his  nuptials. 
Fulvius  enters,  and  upbraids  Sophronia.  Gisippus 
unexpectedly  returns,  and  hears  their  converse. 

*'Soph.  Pray  you,  Fulvius, 

Resolve  me  this. 

Fulv.     What  is  't  you  ask  ? 

Soph.  Suppose  — 

(I  do  but  dream  now  while  I  speak  of  this)  — 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  371 

But  say  that  it  were  possible  our  loves 
Might  yet  be  favored  ! 

Fulv.     Ha  ! 

Soph.  Beware,  young  Roman  ! 

I  speak  this  as  a  dreamer.     But,  suppose  — 
Gisippus,  you  know,  is  worthy, 
And  loves  you  as  a  friend  — 

Fulv.  Alas,  I  've  proved  that, 

But  ill  requited  him  ! 

Soph.  I  pray  you  hear  me. 

Suppose  your  friend  should  give  me  back  the  promise 
That  I  have  plighted  —  (0,  most  unwillingly  !) — 
And  leave  me  free  to  make  my  own  election, 
Wrong  or  dishonor  set  apart  ! 

Fulv.     I  hear  ye. 

Soph.    How  would  my  freedom  move  ye  ? 

Fulv.     (Rapturously.)     As  my  life 
Restored  beneath  the  lifted  axe  ! 

Soph.    We  should  rejoice,  then  ! 

Fulv.     We  should  pale  the  front, 
The  Afric  front  of  night,  with  revel  lights, 
And  tire  her  echoes  with  our  laughter  ! 

Soph.  Ay  ! 

And  Gisippus  would  laugh,  too. 

Fulv.     Ha  ! 

Soph.  He  'd  be 

The  loudest  reveller  amongst  us  !    Ay, 
We  should  be  famed  in  story,  too.     The  best 
The  truest  friends  —  self-sacrificers  !  —  0  ! 
Our  monuments  should  be  the  memories 
Of  every  virtuous  breast,  —  while  Gisippus 
Might  find  his  own  dark  tomb,  and  die  forgotten." 

By  this  dialogue  the  noble  Athenian  learns  that 
his  affianced  bride  weds  him  from  a  sense  of  honor, 
though  her  affections,  in  spite  of  herself,  belong  to 
another.  Gisippus  suddenly  comes  forward,  and  con- 
fronts the  lovers.     They  are  overwhelmed  with  con- 


372  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

fusion ;  but  he,  with  glorious  self-abnegation,  re- 
signs Sophronia,  and  bestows  her  upon  the  chosen 
of  her  heart. 

Mortimer's  eyes  had  sought  the  stage-box  as  he 
spoke.  Lord  Oranmore  and  Leonard  Edmonton  sat  in 
their  customary  seats,  the  former  bending  forward 
with  eager  interest.  The  anguish  and  despair  of  the 
tragedian  became  all-puissant,  and  burst  forth  in  a 
wild  strain*  of  improvised  eloquence.  He  called 
down  the  most  appalling  maledictions  upon  the  one 
for  whom  he  yielded  up  his  heart's  best  treasure,  if 
sorrow  ever  crushed  her  spirit  or  tears  scalded  her 
furrowless  cheeks,  and  ended  with  a  prayer  for  her 
whose  weal  he  had  shipwrecked  all  his  hopes  to 
secure. 

Actors  and  audience  were  alike  taken  by  storm. 
Never  had  his  magical  sway  over  their  emotions  been 
so  entire.  The  theatre  rose  en  masse,  with  waving 
hats  and  handkerchiefs,  and  a  whirlwind  of  acclama- 
tions. 

Elma  stood  petrified. 

A  calmness  as  sudden  as  his  violence  now  sank 
upon  Mortimer's  perturbed  spirit.  He  returned  to 
the  language  of  the  author,  but  even  through  that 
colder  channel  his  agony  found  vent.  Fulvius  and 
Sophronia  depart  together,  and  Gisippus,  left  alone, 
cries  out,  in  sorrow's  last  extremity  : 

"  Gone  !    Alone  ! 
How  my  head  whirls,  and  my  limbs  shake  and  totter, 
As  if  I  had  done  a  crime  !     I  have  —  I  'ye  lied 
Against  my  heart.     What  think  ye  now,  wise  world  ? 
How  shows  this  action  in  your  eyes  ?     My  sight 
Is  thick  and  misty,  and  my  ears  are  filled 
With  sounds  of  hooting  and  of  scorn  — 


THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  373 

What  should  I  fear  ?    I  will  meet  scorn  with  scorn  ! 

It  is  a  glorious  deed  that  I  have  done. 

I  will  maintain  it  'gainst  the  wide  world's  slight, 

And  the  upbraiding  of  my  own  racked  heart ! 

0  !  there  I  'm  conquered  !  " 

He  sinks  despondingly  upon  a  rude  bench,  lifts  from 
his  brow  the  nuptial  garland,  and  drops  it  at  his 
feet. 

The  remaining  acts  of  the  play  were  unmarked  by 
any  extraordinary  incident. 

As  Mortimer  passed  out  of  the  theatre  he  had  to 
force  his  way  through  a  dense  crowd  of  men,  women, 
and  children,  assembled  around  the  stage-door.  Men 
who  cheered,  children  who  clung  to  his  garments, 
women  who  held  up  their  infants  begging  that  he 
would  bestow  one  look  upon  the  "  poor  craythurs," 
just  for  good  luck's  sake.  His  hands  were  seized 
and  kissed  repeatedly,  and  it  was  with  some  diffi- 
culty that  he  could  disengage  them.  When  they 
were  free,  he  drew  a  handful  of  silver  from  his  pocket, 
and  scattered  it  among  the  crowd.  As  the  delighted 
mob  scrambled  for  the  coin,  he  leaped  into  his  coach. 

Mortimer  had  hurried  from  the  theatre  without 
bidding  good-night  to  Elma  or  her  father. 

The  next  day  the  tragedian  did  not  appear  at  re- 
hearsal. This  awakened  no  surprise.  He  did  not  call 
upon  Elma.  Night  arrived  —  the  hour  for  the  rising 
of  the  curtain  —  and  still  Mortimer  came  not.  A  mes- 
senger was  sent  to  his  lodgings.  The  answer  spread 
consternation  throughout  the  theatre.  After  return- 
ing home,  on  the  night  previous,  he  had  walked  out, 
and  had  not  been  'heard  of  since  ! 

The  play  was  suddenly  changed. 
32 


374  THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

Elma's  mind  was  full  of  presageful  fears.  That 
frantic  burst  of  eloquence  had  disclosed  his  belief  that 
she  loved  Lord  Oranmore.  What  consequences  might 
not  the  fatal  error  bring  forth  !  She  dared  not  pic- 
ture them. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

Displeasure  of  the  Audience.  —  Illness  of  Mr.  Ruthven.  —  Maid 
of  Mariendorpt. —  The  Tragedian's  Return. —  Singular  State. 
—  Elma's  Joy. Mr.  Ruthven's  Delight. —  General  Rejoic- 
ing. —  Mortimer's  Protestations.  —  Contract  between  Elma 
and  Mortimer.  —  The  Willing  Signature.  —  The  Father's 
Project.  —  Elma's  Unexpected  Consent.  —  Restoration  of  the 
Invalid. —  Departure  of  the  Tragedian,  Elma,  and  her  Father, 
upon  a  Provincial  Tour. 

Four  days  dragged  wearily  on.  No  tidings  came 
from  Mortimer.  His  mysterious  absence  threw  an 
additional  weight  upon  Elma's  already  oppressed 
spirits.  Mr.  Ruthven,  after  struggling  upon  the 
stage  for  two  nights,  called  down  the  displeasure  of 
the  audience  by  his  imperfect  assumption  of  his 
favorite  villains,  fell  ill,  and  was  confined  to  his  bed. 

His  constant  query  was,  "  Has  Gerald  come  yet  ? 
Has  Gerald  been  heard  from  ? M  And,  when  the 
same  sad  answer  was  repeated,  he  would  ask,  for  the 
fiftieth  time,  in  an  upbraiding  tone,  "  Elma,  did  you 
say  anything  to  distress  him  ?  Did  you  —  could  you 
ill-treat  Mortimer  ?  " 

Her  assurances  satisfied  him  only  for  the  moment. 

"  Nature's  foster-nurse,  Repose,"  fled  from  him. 
No  sweet  oblivion  closed  his  straining,  restless  eyes. 
Grief  had  outstripped  time,  in  deadening  all  his  facul- 
ties.    He  became  helpless,  petulant,  and  childish. 

He  could  not  endure  Elma  to  be  absent  from  his 


376  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

side,  yet  he  would  not  allow  her  to  relinquish  the 
arduous  professional  duties,  which  unavoidably  sepa- 
rated her  from  him  during  a  portion  of  the  morning 
and  the  whole  of  the  evening. 

The  Maid  of  Mariendorpt  was  the  play  represented 
on  the  fourth  night  after  Mortimer's  sudden  disap- 
pearance. The  filial  devotion  of  the  heroine  stirred 
a  deep  spring  in  Elma's  bosom.  She  could  not  but 
think  of  her  suffering,  perhaps  dying,  father.  Her 
acting  won  a  supremacy  over  the  minds  of  her 
audience  never  before  attained. 

The  play  was  over.  She  was  passing  to  her 
chamber  to  disrobe,  and  hasten  home,  when  she 
beheld  in  the  obscure  distance  a  familiar  form. 

"  How  like  Mortimer  !  "  she  ejaculated,  internally. 
The  figure  drew  nearer.  An  exclamation  of  joy 
broke  from  her  lips.  She  rushed  towards  it,  and 
seized  the  cold,  nerveless  hand. 

u  You  have  returned  !  Is  it  you,  indeed  ?  No  ill 
has  befallen  you?  Heaven  be  praised,  a  thousand 
and  a  thousand  times  !  " 

There  was  no  possibility  of  mistaking  the  rapture 
that  betrayed  itself  in  her  tone,  her  mien,  her  glow- 
ing countenance.  Those  rare,  delicious  auguries 
shed  their  melting  warmth  on  Mortimer's  chilled 
heart. 

The  dress  of  the  tragedian  was  travel-stained  and 
disordered.  His  boots  were  pierced  in  many  places, 
as  though  he  had  walked  over  rough  roads  for  a 
long  distance  ;  his  hair  hung  matted  and  entangled 
about  his  bloodless  face  ;  his  lack-lustre  eyes  had  the 
peculiar  dreamy  look  of  recent  awakening  from  a 
somnambulic  trance. 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  S1*l 

"  Tell  me  where  you  have  been  ? "  questioned 
Elma,  with  anxious  interest. 

it  I  do  not  know, —  walking  —  through  woods  —  I 
believe, —  I  cannot  tell  where  !  " 

"  Walking  all  this  time,  without  shelter,  without 
food,  without  sleep  ?     Impossible  !  " 

"  How  long  is  it,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  abstractedly. 

"Four  days  since  you  left  us." 

Mortimer  seemed  to  be  reflecting,  trying  to  calcu- 
late the  time  ;  but  he  could  or  would  give.no  further 
explanation. 

Several  of  the  company  had  caught  sight  of  him, 
and  they  gathered  around  with  joyful  welcomes. 

Elma  had  placed  her  arm  in  his.  She  was  con- 
fident that  his  presence  at  her  father's  bedside  would 
possess  a  remediate  influence. 

"  You  will  continue  your  engagement  ?  You  will 
appear  to-morrow  night  ?  "  inquired  the  calculating 
manager. 

Elma's  voice  joined  in.  "Do  consent ;  you  must 
not  leave  us  yet ;  your  absence  has  terribly  dis- 
tressed my  father, —  he  is  very  ill !  " 

"111?  Indeed!  Let  us  go  to  him  directly,"  re- 
turned Mortimer,  with  emotion. 

"But  your  engagement, —  surely  you  will  con- 
clude it  ?  I  must  have  posters  put  out  immediately. 
Let  me  entreat  you—"  persisted  Mr.  Villars. 

"  I  had  no  intention  of  breaking  it,"  replied  Mor- 
timer. 

Elma's  stage  raiment  was  quickly  exchanged  for 
her  ordinary  garments,  and,  accompanied  by  Mor- 
timer and  old  Winifred,  in  a  few  moments  she  was 
on  her  way  home. 


318  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

Her  father  was  anxiously  awaiting  her  return, 
counting  the  very  minutes  of  her  absence.  He  ac- 
costed her  peevishly  with  : 

"Is  it  you,  at  last  ?  The  play  must  have  been 
over  half  an  hour  ago.  Elma,  why  do  you  neglect 
me  so  ?     Why  did  you  not  come  sooner  ?  " 

"  I  was  detained,  my  dear  father  ;  shall  I  bring  in 
my  apology  ?  Do  not  be  too  much  rejoiced,  for  I 
am  going  to  offer  it  in  the  person  of  a  valued  friend, 
whose  presence  you  have  missed  even  more  than 
you  did  mine." 

Mr.  Ruthven  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow. 

"  Has  he  come  ?    Has  he  come  ? " 

"  Mr.  Mortimer  —  "  cried  Elma. 

Mortimer  entered  at  the  summons. 

The  aged  actor's  delight  bordered  on  the  precincts 
of  pain.  He  could  not  ask  where  Mortimer  had 
been, —  why  he  had  gone ;  he  cared  not  to  know. 
It  was  enough  that  he  had  returned.  All  the  ques- 
tions his  tongue  could  frame  were  swallowed  up  in 
the  entreaty  :  "  You  will  not  leave  us  again?  I  am 
an  old  man  now.  Gerald,  you  will  leave  us  no 
more  ?     Say  yes  to  that." 

Mortimer  turned  to  Elma  ;  the  eyes  of  her  father 
followed  the  direction. 

11  Yes,  yes ;  I  know  what  that  means.  She  is  a 
girl  of  few  words,  yet  she  also  will  bid  you  stay, — 
will  you  not,  my  daughter  ! " 

11  Yes,"  replied  Elma,  promptly. 

Mortimer  as  readily,  but  with  marked  solemnity, 
answered,  "  I  will  never  leave  you  until  she  bid  me." 

The  pain-contracted,  wrinkled  features  of  the  old 
man  relaxed  into  a  childlike  calm.     He  lay  gazing 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  379 

upon  the  two  beloved  beings  until  slumber,  so  long 
a  fugitive,  gently  rocked  his  spirit,  and  with  her 
balmy  breathing  closed  his  eyes. 

Elma  feared  that  some  sudden  movement  might 
disturb  him.  She  softly  rose,  and  led  the  way  to 
the  boudoir  adjoining,  closing  the  door  as  she  passed 
out. 

"  Elma,"  said  Mortimer,  when  they  were  alone 
together,  "have  I  deceived  myself?  Was  the  joy 
you  exhibited  at  my  return  all  for  your  father's 
sake  ?  " 

Elma,  while  she  sat  by  her  father's  couch,  had 
nerved  herself  for  this  interview. 

"  I  did  not  rejoice  for  my  father's  sake  alone. 
Your  unaccountable  absence  has  given  me  great 
uneasiness,  much  pain." 

"  How  shall  I  explain  it  ?  M  returned  Mortimer. 
"  Your  father  told  me  of  Lord  Oranmore's  suit,  and 
of  your  rejection.  An  accidental  occurrence  caused 
me  to  believe  that  you  loved  him.  With  that  con- 
viction my  heart  seemed  turned  to  stone.  I  might 
truly  have  said,  with  the  tortured  Moor,  '  I  strike 
it,  and  it  hurts  my  hand ; '  for  I  carried  in  my  bosom 
a  thing  of  marble  coldness  and  of  iron  weight.  I 
fear  to  tell  you  to  what  desperate  deed  I  was  tempted 
as  I  wandered.  Stretched  on  the  rack  of  doubt,  I 
thought  I  could  not  longer  face  the  ills  of  this  harsh 
world.  But  my  better  angel  stood  beside  me,  and 
held  back  my  rash  hand.  I  know  not  how  long,  or 
whither,  I  strayed,  or  what  chanced,  until  a  voice 
whispered,  soothingly,  that  I  was  the  dupe  of  my 
own  phantom-like  fears.      I  had  not  learned  from 


380  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

Elma's  lips  that  she  loved  this  brainless  lord ;  that 
voice  sent  me  back  to  ask  the  question/ ' 

"  I  do  not  love  Lord  Oranmore,  never  have  loved 
him,  never  could  love  him,"  answered  Elma,  firmly. 

"  Those  words  fall  like  the  healing  nucta-drop 
upon  the  pestilence  in  my  soul,  and  calm  and  purify 
its  troubled,  tainted  atmosphere.  If  you  had  loved 
him,  Elma,  do  not  think  that  I  could  have  thrust 
myself  as  a  hideous  barrier  between  you  and  happi- 
ness. Had  you  made  such  a  choice,  I  must  have 
trembled  for  your  future,  I  would  have  prayed  you 
to  reflect ;  but,  though  my  soul  is  so  enfettered  to 
your  love,  I  would  have  broken  the  chain  with  reso- 
lute hand  when  I  found  that  it  hung  heavily  upon 
you.  But  this  is  not  so  ;  you  do  not  love  him  ;  you 
have  said  it.  I  may  pray  you  to  listen  to  me  while 
I  tell  you  all  you  have  been  to  me,  all  you  are,  all 
you  can  be  !  When  I  tell  you  how  you  may  make 
or  unmake  —  " 

Though  Elma  did  not  interrupt  him,  though  she 
sat  with  folded  hands,  and  half-bowed  form,  and 
eyes  bent  down,  until  the  long,  silky  lashes  cast  a 
deep  shadow  on  her  cheek,  Mortimer  paused.  Elma, 
actress  as  she  was,  could  not  banish  from  her  coun- 
tenance an  expression  of  intense  suffering. 

"  Your  look  renders  me  dumb.  Elma,  I  implore 
you,  let  me  not  deceive  myself  again.  There  is 
something  I  cannot  comprehend.  Give  language  to 
your  thoughts, —  even  to  those  which  could  pain  me 
most.  I  entreat  you,  do  not  keep  me  a  stranger  to 
them.  What  shadow  is  this  upon  your  sweet  coun- 
tenance ?  You  do  not  love  Lord  Oranmore ;  you 
would  not  marry  him  ;  surely  there  is  no  other " 


THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  381 

In  an  instant  Elma  regained  the  self-possession 
which  had  forsaken  her.  She  prevented  his  conclud- 
ing the  sentence. 

"I  —  it  is  that  I  —  I  do  not  desire  to  marry. " 
Then,  as  she  caught  his  searching  eye,  she  added, 
"  Not  while  I  feel  as  I  do  at  this  moment. " 

For  a  brief  space  the  tragedian  sat  pondering. 

14  God  forgive  me  if  I  commit  an  ungenerous 
action  !  "  he  said.  "  Many  men  have  been  guilty  of 
such  deeds  when  passion  gained  the  mastery  over 
their  judgment,  and  they  could  accept  no  other  guid- 
ance.    I  fear  myself! " 

After  a  longer  silence,  he  added:  "Elma,  I  will  but 
ask  one  sacrifice  from  you  —  one  which,  perhaps,  I 
have  no  right  to  demand ;  for,  though  your  mother 
joined  our  hands,  I  must  relinquish  you,  if  your  heart 
does  not  ratify  that  solemn  compact.  I  fear  the 
effect  upon  my  own  mind,  were  I  to  give  you  wholly 
up.  I  ask  but  one  promise  from  you  ;  I  would  pray 
you  to  attach  your  name  to  a  contract  which  my  eyes 
can  look  upon  and  drink  in  comfort  from,  when  I  feel 
something  dangerous  battling  within  me  ;  when  I 
have  cause  to  fear  that 

•  My  blood  begins  my  safer  guides  to  rule, 
And  passion,  having  my  best  judgment  collied, 
Assays  to  lead  the  way.' 

Will  you  promise  me  never  to  give  your  hand,  while 
I  live,  without  my  consent  ?  " 

"Yes,  gladly,"  replied  Elma,  without  hesitation. 

She  rose  and  placed  upon  the  table  materials  for 
writing.    Mortimer  dashed  off  a  few  lines,  and  handed 


382  THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

her  the  paper  ;  she  perused  it,  subscribed  her  name, 
and  returned  it  with  a  bright  smile. 

A  sound  from  the  inner  chamber  sent  Elma  to  her 
father's  bedside.  He  was  awake.  His  first  inquiry 
was  for  Mortimer,  who  immediately  answered  in 
person. 

Mr.  Ruthven  begged  his  daughter  to  retire.  Mor- 
timer asked  permission  to  watch  beside  his  friend  all 
night ;  the  proposition  was  received  with  grateful 
acquiescence. 

Elma  sank  to  rest  with  a  lighter  heart  than  had 
throbbed  in  her  bosom  since  the  death  of  her  mother. 
She  was  spared  the  utterance  of  lip-vows  unechoed  by 
her  soul ;  she  was  saved  from  the  commission  of  that 
legal  sin  which  daily  stains  the  lives  of  thousands. 
She  asked  not  that  the  yearnings  of  her  spirit  might 
be  accomplished  ;  their  fulfilment  lay  with  the  Great 
Ruler  of  events.  Whatever  was  best  for  the  perfect- 
ing of  her  spiritual  state,  whatever  would  promote 
its  healthfulness  here  and  progression  hereafter, 
that  would  surely  be.  In  this  confidence  she  was 
content. 

When  she  reentered  her  father's  chamber,  at  an 
early  hour  the  next  morning,  she  found  him  convers- 
ing in  a  cheerful  tone  with  Mortimer. 

"  Behold  my  physician,  and  the  effects  of  his  mys- 
tical power,"  was  Mr.  Ruthven's  greeting,  as  he 
pointed  to  Mortimer. 

With  an  affectionate  frankness  which  she  had 
never  evinced  towards  him  before,  Elma  placed  her 
hand  in  that  of  the  tragedian,  and  looked  in  his  face 
with  tender  gratitude. 


THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  383 

"  Our  project, —  tell  her  our  project,  Gerald,  while 
I  spare  speech, "  said  Mr.  Ruthven,  hilariously. 

"  We  only  wait  for  your  consent,  Elma  ;  but  the 
plan  is  your  father's.  He  says  that  Dublin  and  famil- 
iar scenes  recall  old  memories,  which  have  grown 
painful  to  him  since  your  mother  left  us ;  that  his 
health  is  broken  ;  that  he  desires  to  travel,  but  he  is 
too  feeble  to  travel  without  —  a  —  a,  friend." 

11 A  son  —  a  son  —  a  dear  son  1 "  interrupted  the  old 
man,  warmly. 

"  True,  a  son, —  at  least,  one  who  will  ever  delight 
in  performing  a  son's  duties.  He  proposes  a  round 
of  engagements  in  England  and  Scotland,  for  you, 
Elma,  and  myself." 

if  Assisted  —  assisted  by  me,  when  I  have  strength, 
as  I  will  have,"  added  the  invalid. 

"  Of  course,  assisted  by  your  father,  when  his 
health  permits.  We  will  travel  through  the  British 
provinces — " 

"  Perhaps  go  to  London  ;  no  fear  of  Elma's  not 
being  appreciated  there.  Gerald  has  had  so  many 
solicitations  from  London  managers,  and  it  would  be 
of  such  an  advantage  to  you,  child !  " 

Mortimer's  countenance  fell.  He  was  unwilling 
to  thwart  the  old  man's  whims  or  wishes.  He  had 
invariably  declined  all  overtures  from  the  metropolis. 

"Time  enough  to  decide  about  that,  my  dear 
father,"  said  Elma,  for  she  saw  that  it  gave  Mortimer 
pain  to  utter  a  denial. 

"  Then  you  consent,  my  child  ?  " 

"Willingly,  if  we  can  obtain  the  permission  of 
Mr.  Villars ;  we  are  under  contract  to  him  for  the 
rest  of  the  season." 


384  THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

"I  have  a  douceur  to  make  him  yield  up  his  claims," 
replied  Mortimer.  "  Trust  me,  that  matter  can  be 
arranged." 

And  it  was  arranged,  though  not  without  some 
difficulty,  for  Elma  had  become  of  sterling  value  to 
the  theatre.  But  Mortimer  conducted  the  transac- 
tion with  the  manager,  and  what  arguments  he  used 
did  not  transpire. 

Mortimer's  engagement  had  commenced  on  Mon- 
day ;  he  had  absented  himself  four  nights, —  Saturday 
evening  alone  remained.  Upon  that  night  he  ap- 
peared with  Elma.  More  than  once  he  fancied  that 
her  eyes  strayed  to  the  box  where,  as  usual,  Lord 
Oranmore  sat,  but  he  was  now  fully  convinced  that 
their  direction  was  accidental. 

On  Monday,  Gerald  Mortimer,  with  Mr.  Ruthven 
and  his  daughter,  started  for  a  provincial  tour. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Provincial  Engagements.  —  Mr.  Ruthven's  Dissertations  on  Rep- 
resented Villany.  —  Unpaid  Performances  in  the  Boxes  of  the 
Theatre.  —  The  Surprise.  —  Lord  Oranmore  and  Mr.  Ed- 
monton.—  Painful  Effects  of  her  Father's  Intelligence  upon 
Elma.  —  Mortimer's  Solicitation  for  her  Confidence. —  Gloom 
of  the  Tragedian.  —  Elmo's  Disturbed  Equanimity.  —  Leon- 
ard Edmonton's  Visit.  —  His  Character  and  Views.  —  A  Be- 
trayal. —  The  Forgotten  Contract.  —  Happiness  Renounced. 

We  do  not  purpose  step  by  step  to  follow  Morti- 
mer and  Elma's  career  in  the  provinces.  They 
were  everywhere  received  with  enthusiasm.  To 
these  audiences  the  tragedian  was  already  famil- 
iar. He  brought  Elma  before  them  with  exultant 
pride. 

Mortimer's  habitual  eccentricity  ceased  to  be  pain- 
fully manifested.  The  erratic  comet  now  moved  in  a 
fixed  orbit.  She  was  the  sun  around  which  he  re- 
volved with  steady  light.  Managers,  whom  he  had 
hitherto  kept  in  a  constant  state  of  doubt  and  fear, 
rejoiced,  and  sat  beneath  their  (painted)  vineyards 
and  fig-trees  in  peace. 

No  word  of  love  ever  fell  from  Mortimer's  lips,  no 
allusion  to  the  contract  he  held,  no  half-breathed 
hope  for  the  future.  The  blissful  present  filled  life's 
goblet  to  the  brim,  and  mirrored  in  its  sparkling 
juices  but  the  day  and  the  hour. 

Mr.  Ruthven's  eager  desire  once  more  to  tread 


386  THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

the  boards  remained  unabated,  but  ungratified.  His 
voice  had  grown  feeble  and  piping,  his  gait  totter- 
ing, his  form  bowed,  his  mind  infirm ;  and  yet  his 
profession  could  not  lose  its  strong  fascination.  He 
strolled  about  nightly  behind  the  scenes  until  the 
play  commenced,  and  then  took  his  seat  with  the 
audience,  listening  with  entranced  ears  to  the  eulo- 
giums  drawn  forth  by  Mortimer's  vivid  delineations, 
or  Elma's  sculpture-like  embodiments. 

Not  unfrequently  it  was  the  aged  actor  who 
"  started  the  applause "  at  some  delicate  point, 
which  would  have  escaped  the  uninitiated  audience. 

The  personators  of  the  villains  invariably  excited 
his  ire,  they  "imitated  humanity  so  abominably  ;  " 
so,  at  least,  he  declared  to  his  accidental  neighbors. 
Between  the  acts,  his  learned  dissertations  upon  the 
true  mode  of  "making  up"  and  depicting  a  genuine 
rogue,  and  his  illustration  of  the  effects  of  crime 
upon  the  facial  muscles,  nightly  drew  around  him  a 
group  of  wondering  auditors.  Impelled  by  love  for 
his  art,  he  indulged  them  with  a  small,  unsalaried 
performance  of  his  own,  which  certainly  combined 
instruction  with  entertainment. 

It  was  two  months  since  the  travellers  left  Dublin. 
They  were  now  performing  in  Glasgow.  Mr.  Ruth- 
ven,  according  to  his  custom,  sat  in  front  of  the 
theatre.  He  was  too  much  interested  in  Mortimer's 
"  Gamester,"  and  his  daughter's  Mrs.  Beverly,  to 
observe  who  occupied  the  seat  adjoining  his.  When 
the  curtain  fell,  at  the  close  of  the  first  act,  a  familiar 
voice  saluted  him  with, 

"  Ruthven,  how  are  you  ?    Glad  to  see  you  look- 


THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  38T 

ing  so  well  I  "  and  his  neighbor  warmly  grasped  his 
hand. 

"  Bless  my  heart  and  soul !  You  don't  say  so  ? 
I  had  n't  the  least  idea  of  seeing  you  here,  my  lord. 
Very  glad,  I  assure  you.  Is  that  Mr.  Edmonton  by 
your  side  ?  Exceedingly  glad,  sir,  to  meet  you  again, 
—  most  unexpected  rencontre,  I  declare  !  When  did 
you  leave  Dublin  ?  " 

"Only  three  days  since,  —  arrived  in  Glasgow 
this  morning,  —  are  making  a  brief  tour  of  pleasure. 
I  need  not  ask  after  Miss  Ruthven's  health.  I  never 
saw  her  look  more  charming,  and  she  has  gained 
dramatic  power.  We  may  expect  a  fine  performance 
to-night.' ' 

What  father  is  not  gratified  by  encomiums  be- 
stowed upon  his  child  ?  If  any  such  there  be,  Mr. 
Ruthven  was  not  of  the  number.  He  conversed 
freely  with  the  young  men  of  Elma,  until  the  individ- 
ual who  assumed  that  "double-distilled  villain," 
Stukely,  awakened  his  wrath ;  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening  he  could  only  discourse,  with  the  garrulity 
of  age,  upon  his  favorite  theme. 

When  the  play  ended,  Lord  Oranmore,  courteously 
ignoring  the  past,  expressed  a  desire  to  pay  his  re- 
spects to  Miss  Ruthven.  The  father  assured  both 
gentlemen  that  they  would  be  welcome. 

Mr.  Ruthven  rejoined  his  daughter,  to  conduct  her 
home.  She  was  standing  near  the  green-room  door, 
beside  Mortimer.  He  was  consulting  her  upon  the 
best  selection  of  a  play  for  his  benefit-night. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  have  been  acting  for  some 
Hibernian  friends  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Ruthven,  gayly. 

"  No  !  "  replied  Elma. 


388  THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

"No  !  who  are  they  VJ  asked  Mortimer. 

"  Lord  Oranmore  and  Mr.  Edmonton.  Mercy  on 
me  1  what 's  the  matter  with  Elma  ?  " 

As  her  father  gave  utterance  to  those  names,  a 
deadly  pallor  spread  over  her  face,  her  eyes  half 
closed,  her  head  sank  back,  her  pulses  stopped. 
But  only  for  a  second  —  she  recovered  herself  almost 
before  he  had  ceased  speaking,  and  made  an  effort 
to  reassure  him  by  a  forced  smile. 

"  Are  you  very  weary?  Has  Mrs.  Beverly  over- 
come you  ?  "  asked  her  father. 

Elma  was  the  soul  of  truth ;  she  could  not  have 
stooped  to  subterfuge ;  she  answered,  though  with 
an  unsteady  voice,  "No,  —  I  was  not, — I  am  not 
more  fatigued  than  usual. " 

Mr.  Ruthven  looked  puzzled,  as  he  conducted  her 
to  the  carriage,  followed  by  Mortimer. 

When  they  returned  to  the  hotel,  the  latter  seized 
an  opportunity  while  her  father  was  at  the  supper- 
table  to  say :  "  Elma,  confide  in  me,  I  implore  you ; 
disclose  to  me  your  heart.  The  pen-stroke  upon 
that  paper  binds  you  to  nothing  but  confidence  in 
me.  What  have  you  to  fear,  Elma  ?  What  would 
I  not  sacrifice  for  you  ?  Life  itself  is  but  a  breath  I 
would  gladly  yield  up,  were  your  happiness  to  be 
secured  thereby.     Only  confide  in  me  freely." 

"  I  have  nothing  —  there  is  nothing  I  can  confide," 
replied  Elma ;  but  her  eyes  were  not  raised  to  his 
with  their  wonted  ingenuous  clearness. 

"  Strange  ! "  said  Mortimer,  sadly,  and  rising  as  he 
spoke,  "that  I  have  so  seldom  failed  in  reading  hearts, 
- —  hearts  that  were  indifferent  to  me,  —  and  I  have 


THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  389 

no  power  to  scan  yours,  which  is  dearer  than  my 
own  !  "  and  he  left  the  room. 

"  Read  my  heart  ?  "  Elma  slowly  repeated.  "  How 
should  he,  when  I  dare  not  turn  my  eyes  inward  and 
view  it  myself  1" 

The  mist-like  gloom  that  for  two  months  had 
melted  from  Mortimer's  brow  regathered  in  a  night. 
When  they  met  the  next  morning,  Elma  perceived 
the  ominous  cloud  ;  but  she  had  no  power  to  strike  it 
with  sunshine,  and  dispel  its  darkness. 

Some  invisible  hand  had  troubled  the  calm-gliding, 
heaven-reflecting  stream  of  her  own  life.  She  was 
no  longer  queen  over  herself,  all  her  emotions  in 
subjection  to  her  will.  Every  time  the  door  opened, 
her  eyes  turned  that  way ;  the  sound  of  a  knock 
caused  her  to  bound  from  her  seat ;  her  color  varied 
at  every  approaching  step. 

During  rehearsal  she  was  strangely  distraite.  She 
made  several  unaccountable  blunders,  forgot  her  en- 
trances, took  wrong  situations,  grew  confused,  and 
could  not  conceal  that  her  wandering  thoughts  re- 
fused to  be  chained  down  to  that  charmless  locality. 

Rehearsal  was  but  half  over,  when  Mortimer  sud- 
denly forsook  the  stage.  The  call-boy  searched  for 
him  in  vain.  At  last  word  was  brought  that  the 
door-keeper  had  seen  him  leave  the  theatre. 

'.'  How  vexatious  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Busby,  the 
stage-manager.  "  Everything  has  gone  so  smoothly 
through  this  engagement !  He  has  conducted  him- 
self, for  once,  like  an  ordinary  mortal.  I  was  just 
congratulating  myself.  Now,  I  '11  answer  for  it,  we 
shall  have  some  fresh  eccentricity.  No  more  rehear- 
sals, I  warrant!  I  suppose  something  has  vexed 
33 


390  THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

him ;  ten  to  one  if  he  will  make  his  appearance  to- 
night ! " 

Elma,  on  her  return  home,  found  upon  her  drawing- 
room  table  Lord  Oranmore's  card,  with  pencilled  re 
grets  at  her  absence.  It  was  still  in  her  hand,  when 
the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  a  servant  announced 
Mr.  Edmonton. 

Where  was  all  Elma's  wonted  equanimity  and  self- 
control  ?  It  had  fled,  beyond  her  recalling,  at  the 
sound  of  a  name.  In  her  agitation,  her  fruitless 
struggles  for  composure,  how  could  Leonard  Edmon- 
ton help  perusing  that  page  of  her  heart  which  was 
most  precious  to  the  eyes  of  a  lover?  —  for  that  he 
was  a  lover  the  reader  need  hardly  be  told. 

When  Lord  Oranmore  proposed  to  make  the  tour 
of"  England  and  Scotland,  his  sole  object  was  to  be- 
hold Elma  once  more.  Edmonton  had  been  the  asso- 
ciate of  his  former  travels,  and  was  again  solicited 
to  bear  him  company.  It  was  possible  —  we  might 
say  probable  —  that  Leonard's  ready  acquiescence 
sprang  from  the  same  hope  that  animated  the  bosom 
of  his  noble  friend. 

The  characters  of  these  two  young  men  were  in 
striking  contrast  to  each  other,  though  their  affec- 
tions centred  upon  the  same  object.  Lord  Oranmore 
was  thoughtless,  flippant,  worldly,  —  a  titled  cox- 
comb. By  him  Elma  was  the  more  highly  prized 
because  a  gaping  multitude  bowed  down  before  her. 
To  Edmonton  that  very  circumstance  would  have 
made  her  less  dear,  had  he  not  known  that  she  car- 
ried an  antidote  in  her  heart  which  rendered  harmless 
the  subtle  poison  of  popular  adulation. 

In  his  pure  and  lofty  mind  the  false  and  the  hollow 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  391 

found  no  echoes.  Yet  his  expansive  heart  unfolded 
itself  genially,  and  embraced  all  that  Heaven  created. 
The  harsh  judgments,  that  shot  with  withering  con- 
demnation from  self-righteous  tongues,  never  sullied 
his  lips. 

He  had  become  a  student  of  divinity,  against 
strong  opposition,  because  he  preferred  to  be  a  mes- 
senger of  peace,  a  bearer  of  balm  to  wounded, 
broken  spirits,  rather  than  to  hold  the  highest  office 
which  the  power  of  man  could  bestow. 

He  was  too  liberal,  too  well-informed,  too  deeply 
imbued  with  Christian  charity,  to  suppose  that  evil 
necessarily  intermingled  with  the  represented  history 
which  takes  the  name  of  the  drama.  He  thought  it 
no  shame  to  love  such  a  woman  as  Elma,  though  she 
chanced  to  bear  the  title  of  an  actress  ;  though  she 
was  the  daughter,  and  the  granddaughter,  and  the 
great-granddaughter,  of  actors. 

The  lights  which  shone  upon  her  life  had  been 
struck  from  sparks  that  Leonard  first  kindled.  It 
was  he  who  had  taught  her  to  seek  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  and  its  righteousness,  believing  that  all 
things  needful  would  be  added  unto  her,  —  all  things 
which  regarded  her  actual  good,  — not  her  mere  tran- 
sient prosperity  in  time,  but  her  unperishing,  ineffa- 
ble, ever-increasing  felicity  in  eternity.  From  this 
source  sprang  her  unrebellious  patience,  her  never- 
failing  trust. 

Leonard  Edmonton  was  'on  the  eve  of  declaring 
his  attachment  to  Elma,  when  he  was  thunderstruck 
by  the  information  that  Lord  Oranmore  had  sought 
her  hand ;  that  he  had  been  rejected  ;  that  she  was 
already  betrothed. 


392  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

Her  image  was  interwoven  with  every  fibre  of  his 
heart,  yet  he  must  pluck  it  thence.  It  was  a  hard 
disjunction,  a  cruel  severing.  For  a  time  the  flood 
swept  over  him,  and  the  Ararat  of  his  existence  dis- 
appeared. 

When  Lord  Oranmore  proposed  the  visit  to  Scot- 
land, Edmonton  found  it  impossible  to  trample  out 
a  hope  which  still  flickered  in  his  breast.  He  would 
see  Elma  once  more,  make  "  assurance  doubly  sure/' 
and  part  with  her,  if  needs  must  be,  forever. 

And  when  he  came,  Elma,  as  we  have  already 
seen,  forgot  for  the  moment  her  interview  with  his 
father,  her  bond  to  Mortimer,  —  everything  but  the 
joy  of  standing  in  his  presence,  beholding  him,  lis- 
tening to  him  once  again.  Her  manner  awakened  a 
thousand  delicious  hopes,  and  emboldened  Edmonton 
to  give  them  utterance.  The  answer  at  which  his 
heart  throbbed  tumultuously  was  not  syllabled  in 
language,  nor  conveyed  in  any  form  that  could  be 
coldly  transcribed  upon  paper. 

But  when  Edmonton  strove  to  break  the  spell  of 
her  eloquent,  trembling  silence,  and  implored  her  to 
tell  him  that  he  had  not  been  wholly  banished  from 
her  thoughts,  —  that  she  had  cherished  some  memory 
of  him  during  their  separation,  —  she  raised  the  lid 
of  a  box  which  stood  on  the  table,  took  from  an 
inner  drawer  a  small  packet,  and  laid  it  in  his  hand. 

He  opened  the  paper.  Within  was  the  bunch  of 
violets,  fastened  by  a  golden  arrow,  which  had  fallen 
at  her  feet  on  the  night  of  her  mother's  farewell. 

But  Elma  checked  his  exclamation  of  rapture. 

"  Selfish  and  thoughtless  !  what  have  I  done  ?  " 
she  cried.    "  How  totally  I  have  forgotten  all  that — 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  393 

0,  there  is  so  much  that  I  have  yet  to  tell  you  1  That 
bond  —  " 

"A  bond?  Do  not  say  that  you  are  not  free, 
Elma !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  consternation. 

"Free?  Yes,  I  am;  and  yet  not  wholly  free. 
There  is  my  father  crossing  the  street, — it  is  not 
possible  now  to  tell  you  all.  0,  forget  these  few 
moments  of  happiness  !    I  can  promise  you  nothing." 

"  Bo  not  keep  me  in  cruel  suspense,  Elma !  When 
am  I  to  see  you  again  ?  Let  it  be  to-day,  —  let  me 
know  the  worst  to-day." 

"  To-day !  how  is  that  possible  ?  The  day  is  nearly 
over." 

Mr.  Kuthven,  whom  Elma  had  seen  from  the  win- 
dow, now  entered  the  room. 

Edmonton  lingered  as  long  as  politeness  would 
permit;  then  took  his  leave,  without  obtaining  an- 
other word  of  explanation  from  Elma. 

Mr.  Ruthven  was  in  a  disturbed,  querulous  state, 
because  Gerald  could  not  be  found ;  because  Elma 
could  not  account  for  his  sudden  departure  from 
rehearsal. 

Well  might  her  heart  sink  as  she  reflected  how 
necessary  Mortimer  was  to  her  father's  happiness  ! 

Her  self-possession  once  restored,  her  resolution 
was  quickly  taken.  She  would  not  cause  her  aged 
parent  sorrow  ;  she  would  not  render  Mortimer  mis- 
erable. She  closed  her  eyes  upon  the  vision  of  that 
calm  and  holy  future  which  had  risen  up  before  her. 
She  would  seek  the  earliest  opportunity  to  confide 
everything  to  Edmonton.  He  was  too  noble-minded 
to  endeavor  to  change  her  purpose. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  Lover's  Perplexity.  —  Edmonton  behind  the  Scenes.  —  Elma's 
Confession.  —  Sudden  Appearance  of  the  Tragedian.  —  Part- 
ing of  the  Lovers.  —  Mortimer's  Inexplicable  Conduct. —  Con- 
versation with  Mima.  —  Reciprocal  Generosity.  —  The  Fath- 
er's Misinterpretation. 

Leonard  Edmonton's  interview  with  Elma  had  lifted 
him  for  a  moment  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  felicity, 
then  plunged  him  into  an  abyss  of  doubt.  Certain 
and  inevitable  evil  he  could  have  encountered  with 
calmness ;  but  these  perplexing,  bewildering  hopes 
and  fears  put  to  flight  his  wonted  self-control.  Delay 
became  intolerable  ;  he  must  see  Elma  that  very 
evening,  and  entreat  her  full  confidence. 

At  the  theatre  in  Glasgow  access  behind  the 
scenes  was  not  attended  with  difficulty.  A  quarter 
of  an  hour  before  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  Edmonton 
presented  himself  at  the  stage  entrance,  and  requested 
to  see  Miss  Ruthven.  Without  comment  or  question, 
the  door-keeper  gave  him  admission.  No  guide  was 
vouchsafed.  Leonard  entered  and  wandered  about 
until  he  reached  the  back  of  the  stage,  behind  the 
"flats."  Here  a  couple  of  carpenters  were  con- 
structing a  throne  (King  Lear  was  the  tragedy  to  be 
represented  that  evening).  The  intruder  was  un- 
noticed until  he  accosted  them.  He  had  written  a 
few  words  on  his  card,  and  wished  to  send  it  to  Miss 
Ruthven.     One  of  the  men,  without  interrupting  his 


THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  395 

occupation,  shouted  to  Jock,  the  call-boy.  A  sandy- 
haired  lad  answered  the  summons,  received  the  card, 
and  walked  off,  deliberately  perusing  the  pencilled 
lines  as  he  went. 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  Elma,  in  her  Cordelia 
attire,  appeared  before  her  lover. 

The  carpenters  had  completed  their  royal  elevation, 
and  now  bore  it  away. 

Elma  and  Leonard  stood  alone  in  the  dim  light. 
She  was  no  longer  the  blushing,  trembling  girl,  who 
had  been  surprised  into  the  betrayal  of  her  heart's 
dearest  secret.  She  had  advanced  towards  Leonard 
with  a  firm  step,  an  air  of  sad  composure,  a  look  of 
steady  resolve. 

"  I  fear  I  have  committed  an  impropriety  in  pre- 
senting myself  here,  Elma ;  but  I  could  not  endure 
the  state  of  torturing  uncertainty  in  which  I  parted 
from  you." 

"lam  glad  that  you  have  come,"  replied  Elma, 
very  quietly ;  "I  have  blamed  myself  severely  for 
the  false  hopes  I  gave  you  this  morning." 

" False  hopes,  Elma?  Was  I  wrong,  then,  in  be- 
lieving what  your  looks  told  me  in  such  thrilling 
language  ?     Must  I  doubt  —  " 

**  Spare  me !  M  supplicated  Elma.  "  Do  not  try  my 
strength !  My  heart  may  prove  weaker  than  my 
judgment  —  my  resolution!  M  Then  she  added,  in  a 
quicker,  more  excited  tone  :  "  But  why  need  I  make 
any  concealment  from  you,  who  are  worthy  of  all 
trust?  I  should  not  blush  to  admit  that  Heaven 
could  not  bless  me  more  than  by  exchanging  my  un- 
congenial present  for  &  future  by  your  side." 

"  Elma,  what  words  of —  " 


396  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

Elma  interrupted  him.  "  Let  me  tell  you  all  while 
I  can.  My  parents  chose  for  me  a  husband  ;  —  one 
whom  they  loved,  one  for  whom  I  have  the  profound- 
est  esteem.  My  dying  mother  placed  my  hand  in 
his  ;  my  father  clings  to  him  with  the  devotion  of  a 
parent.  I  could  not,  would  not  rob  that  infirm  and 
grief-worn  father  of  this  chosen  staff  of  his  age." 

"  But,  dearest,  if  his  consent  could  be  obtained — " 

"  It  is  not  possible!  But,  if  it  were,  an  insuperable 
barrier  still  divides  us.  He  to  whom  I  was  betrothed, 
Gerald  Mortimer,  as  he  is  called,  loves  me  with  all 
the  uncontrollable  ardor  of  his  strong  nature.  There 
is  a  mystery  attached  to  him  that  I  have  not  en- 
deavored to  penetrate ;  he  will  unfold  it  himself  in 
good  time.  But  sometimes  I  have  fancied  that  there 
must  be  hereditary  insanity  in  the  family  to  which 
he  belongs.  All  painful  excitements  appear  to  un- 
settle his  mind.  I  have  exerted  a  calming  influence 
over  him  which  no  one  else  seems  to  possess.  Think 
you  I  could  now  purchase  my  happiness  at  the  price, 
perhaps,  of  his  reason  ?  M 

"  You  are  then  engaged  to  him  ?  I  thought  you 
told  me  you  were  free  !  " 

"I  was  engaged  to  him,  but,  the  moment  he  had 
cause  to  doubt  my  affection  he  generously  re- 
leased me.  He  now  holds  my  written  promise  that  I 
will  never  bestow  my  hand,  while  he  lives,  unsanc- 
tioned by  him.  His  consent  I  well  know  would  be 
granted  at  a  single  word  of  mine  ;  but  that  word, 
which  must  seal  his  misery,  will  never  pass  my  lips ! 
Be  content  with  the  confession  I  have  so  frankly 
made,  that  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  all  else  upon 
this  earth  ;  though  I  will  not  wring  my  father's  heart, 


THE    UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  397 

I  will  not  wreck  Mortimer's  happiness,  by  becoming 
your  wife  —  never  !  never  !  " 

At  this  moment  a  groan,  so  full  of  mortal  anguish 
that  it  seemed  the  severing  of  a  soul  from  its  earthly 
tenement,  reached  their  ears. 

They  turned.  Elma  recognized  the  kingly  robes 
of  Lear.  No  face  was  visible,  for  the  clenched  hands 
were  pressed  upon  the  brow.  The  figure  passed 
silently  on  its  way  to  the  green-room. 

"  It  is  Mortimer !  "  exclaimed  Elma,  in  accents  of 
consternation.  "He  must  have  heard  my  words! 
Leave  me,  I  pray  you  !  Let  me  go  to  him  at  once, 
else  some  terrible  consequence  may  ensue. " 

"  One  word  more,  Elma  !  I  honor,  yes,  with  my 
whole  soul,  I  reverence  your  motives.  I  will  not, 
even  in  thought,  seek  to  alter  your  heroic  resolution. 
I  would  be  unworthy  of  you,  if  I  could  do  so.  Only 
grant  me  the  privilege  of  sometimes  seeing  you  still 
as  the  dearest  of  friends.  But,  come  what  may,  even 
if  we  never  behold  each  other  again  upon  this  earth, 
there  is  a  realm  where  we  must  meet ;  and,  until  the 
day  of  that  blessed  reunion,  be  sure  that  my  heart  is 
true  to  yours." 

"As  mine  will  ever  be!"  answered  Elma,  in  a 
scarcely  audible  tone. 

With  one  confiding  clasp  of  their  hands  they 
parted. 

Elma  sought  Mortimer  in  vain.  She  feared  that, 
in  the  rash  madness  of  the  moment,  he  had  rushed 
from  the  theatre. 

Just  as  the  curtain  rose,  to  her  great  relief,  he 
joined  the  group  who  stood  ready  to  take  their  situa- 
tions on  the  stage  in  King  Lear's  hall  of  audience. 
34 


398  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

His  mien  was  placid,  his  thoughts  were  apparently 
engrossed  in  his  part. 

When  the  act  concluded,  Elma  approached,  and 
addressed  him.  He  answered  mildly.  His  manner 
was  even  calmer  than  usual. 

Elma  began  to  doubt  that  he  had  overheard  her 
words  ;  but  she  could  not  rest  without  assuring  her- 
self, and  timidly  asked, 

"Was  it  not  you  whom  I  saw,  a  few  moments 
ago,  when  I  was  conversing  with  —  with  Mr.  Ed- 
monton ?  M 

Mortimer  regarded  her  in  amazement ;  then  an- 
swered, with  forced  composure : 

"  Probably  ;  I  was  near  you  for  a  few  seconds. 
0,  Elma  !  Elma !  why  is  it  so  hard  for  me  to  say 

*  Yield  up,  0  love,  thy  crown  and  hearted  throne '  ? 

Why  are  you  so  dear  that  the  strength  of  a  giant 
will  cannot  tear  you  from  my  thoughts  ?  But  do 
not  fear ;  do  not  look  so  troubled.  You  have  nothing 
to  dread  from  me." 

"I  know  it,  Gerald." 

"  You  have  made  a  noble  choice,  Elma.  His  love 
is  not  a  mere  '  toy  in  the  blood/  as  was  the  fanciful 
passion  of  Lord  Oranmore.  I  have  heard  the  praises 
of  Leonard  Edmonton  from  tongues  that  delight  only 
in  censure." 

Could  Elma  prevent  the  dawning  smile  that  uncon- 
sciously stole  over  her  countenance  ?  Could  Morti- 
mer help  the  icy  pang  that  smile  shot  through  his 
heart  ? 

"  Do  not  say  'my  choice/  M  replied  Elma,  recover- 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  399 

ing  herself.  "Mr.  Edmonton  is  aware  —  expects 
nothing  from  me." 

Mortimer  made  no  rejoinder,  and  Elma  was  at  a 
loss  in  what  manner  to  continue  the  conversation,  or 
to  construe  his  silence. 

Lear  was  called  to  the  stage. 

When  the  play  concluded,  Mortimer  returned  with 
Elma  and  Mr.  Kuthven  to  their  hotel. 

Elma  could  trace  nothing  unusual  in  the  trage- 
dian's conduct ;  no  changeful  fits  and  starts,  no  evi- 
dences of  the  great  convulsion  of  spirit  which  she 
had  cause  to  anticipate. 

When  they  parted,  there  was  so  much  tenderness 
in  his  adieu,  so  much  confiding  affection  in  hers, 
that  the  aged  parent,  who  sat  contentedly  gazing 
upon  them,  drew  happy  auguries  from  their  mutual 
cordiality. 

As  he  pressed  his  lips  on  Elma's  forehead,  and 
bestowed  his  nightly  benediction,  he  said  : 

"  Best  of  daughters  !  what  a  source  of  unmingled 
joy  jou  have  ever  been  to  me  !  a  joy  that  is  ever 
increasing.  You  leave  none  of  my  wishes  unfulfilled. 
It  makes  me  glad  at  heart  when  I  see  you  so  kind  to 
Gerald.  You  will  not  keep  him  much  longer  in 
suspense  ;  even  these  old  eyes  can  see  that  plainly." 

"  My  father  !  my  father  !  "  exclaimed  Elma,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  anguish,  as  she  clung  to  him,  and  hid 
her  face  upon  his  shoulder. 

'■'  What  does  that  mean,  Elma  ?  " 

"  God  only  knows  the  future  !  "  she  answered,  as 
she  released  her  hold,  and,  with  slow  steps,  retired 
to  her  chamber. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

The  Tragedy  of  Bertram.  —  Rehearsal. —  Elma' s  Astrologer. — 
An  Enigma. —  Performance  of  Bertram.—  A  Rash  Deed  and 
Terrible  Reality. —  The  Contract  Annulled. —  The  Trage- 
dian's Closing  Scene. —  Mystery  that  remains  Unsolved.  —  A 
Year  Later.  —  Farewell  of  an  Actress.  —  Picture  in  a  Parish 
Church. 

The  tragedy  of  Bertram,  by  the  Rev.  Charles  Ma- 
turin,  of  St.  Peter's,  Dublin,  was  the  play  selected 
for  representation  on  the  ensuing  evening.  The 
thrilling  personations  of  Edmund  Kean  first  imparted 
to  this  highly-wrought  drama  a  decided  but  transient 
popularity.  The  more  fastidious  taste  of  audiences 
at  the  present  day  rarely  demands  its  performance. 

Mortimer  and  Elma  met  as  usual  at  rehearsal. 
The  anxious,  questioning  eyes  she  raised  to  his 
countenance  were  withdrawn  with  an  expression  of 
grateful  content.  Mortimer's  face  was  unruffled,  as 
on  the  night  previous.  It  was  fixed,  almost  rigid,  in 
its  placidity. 

While  a  scene  in  which  she  was  not  concerned 
was  rehearsed,  Elma  sat  beside  the  prompter's  table, 
her  head  leaning  upon  her  hands,  her  eyes  half-closed. 
She  was  thinking  of  her  father,  and  of  the  stormy 
grief  and  displeasure  which  would  be  conjured  up 
by  the  knowledge  that  she  could  never  become  the 
wife  of  Mortimer.  She  was  asking  herself  whether 
waywardness  and  selfishness  were  not  largely  inter- 


THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN.  401 

mingled  with  her  affection  for  Edmonton.  She  was 
hearkening  to  reproaches  that  cried  out  in  her  heart 
with  clamorous,  accusing  tongues,  and  drowned 
love's  low-voiced,  timorous  defence 

Mortimer  stood  contemplating  her  for  a  brief 
space.     Then  he  drew  near,  and  said, 

11  Elma,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  shadow  upon  that 
dear  countenance.  Look  up,  and  smile ;  for  the 
darkness  is  passing  away.  Listen,  while  I  play  the 
astrologer,  and  tell  you  of  the  fortunate  star  that 
shines  over  your  head.  It  gleams  through  a  cloud- 
less sky,  and  rests  above  an  earthly  abode  of  peace 
and  love,  where  Elma  will  dwell.  Do  not  cast  the 
poor  prophet  of  to-day  quite  out  of  your  thoughts 
when  you  stand  on  the  rose-twined  threshold  of  that 
home,  and  look  up  to  that  star." 

"  You  speak  in  riddles,"  said  Elma,  trying  to 
laugh  ;  "  and  I  am  the  very  dullest  of  diviners." 

"Time  will  solve  the  enigma.  When  it  does, 
waste  a  thought  upon  one  who  will  not  be  by  to 
remind  you — ■** 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Elma,  in  a  startled 
tone.  "  You  are  not  going  away  ?  You  do  not 
intend  to  leave  us  ?  " 

"  No  —  yes, —  I  cannot  tell." 

"  Do  not,  I  entreat  you  !  Think  of  my  father,  of 
his  happiness  —  " 

"  I  have  thought  of  his,  and  of  yours.  I  would 
secure  his  with  yours,  and  through  yours." 

"  Bertram  and  Imogine  called ! "  cried  Jock, 
saucily  thrusting  himself  between  the  pair,  and 
widely  grinning  with  delight  at  breaking  up  the  con- 
versation of  supposed  lovers. 


402  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

Mortimer  did  not  again  approach  Elma  while  re- 
hearsal lasted,  nor  did  they  meet  during  the  rest  of 
the  day. 

Bertram  does  not  appear  until  the  second  act.  In 
Act  I.,  Scene  5th,  Imogine  is  discovered  sitting  at  a 
table,  with  a  miniature  in  her  hand. 

The  character  of  Imogine,  the  Lady  of  St.  Aldo- 
brand,  was  not  faithfully  interpreted  by  Elma's 
chaste  and  unimpassioned  delineation. 

As  she  made  her  first  exit  at  right,  she  passed 
by  Mortimer,  who  had  stationed  himself  where  he 
could  survey  the  audience. 

"He  is  there ! "  he  murmured,  in  a  strange, 
unnatural  tone. 

Not  an  atom  of  coquetry  was  infused  in  Elma's 
nature.  She  did  not  ask  H  who/7  as  other  women 
might  have  done  ;  nor  did  she  affect  surprise.  She 
had  not  once  turned  her  eyes  in  the  direction  where 
Edmonton  sat ;  yet  she  was  instinctively,  magnet- 
ically, conscious  of  his  presence. 

That  night  Mortimer  surpassed  all  his  grandest 
efforts  in  the  depiction  of  fierce,  frantic,  startling, 
and  appalling  passions. 

In  the  last  act  Imogine  dies  in  the  arms  of  Ber- 
tram. Mortimer,  during  this  scene,  in  particular, 
appeared  wrought  up  to  frenzy.  Cold  drops  poured 
from  his  brow,  his  face  was  livid,  his  whole  frame 
quivered  with  strong  emotion. 

After  the  death  of  Imogine,  instead  of  snatching 
a  sword  from  one  of  the  knights  (according  to  stage 
direction),  he  drew  a  dagger  from  his  own  girdle. 
The  steel  glittered  for  an  instant,  as  he  pronounced 
the  words, 


THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  403 

"  Bertram  has  but  one  fatal  foe  on  earth, 
And  he  is  here  !  " 

then  was  violently  plunged  into  his  breast.  Ho 
sank  upon  the  ground,  exclaiming,  in  an  exultant 
tone, 

"  Lift  up  your  holy  hands  in  charity  ! 
I  died  no  felon  death  — 
A  warrior's  weapon  freed  a  warrior's  soul ! " 

Elma's  eyes  were  closed  as  she  lay  upon  the  stage. 
She  marked  not  the  red  current  that  flowed  upon  the 
ground,  even  till  it  reached  her  white  raiment.  The 
actors  beheld  it,  and  looked  aghast.  The  audience 
saw  it  with  mute  horror. 

Mortimer  lay  motionless,  weltering  in  blood.  The 
curtain  fell.     His  companions  stooped  to  raise  him. 

"  Gently !  gently  ! "  he  groaned  ;  "you  are  —  car- 
rying—  a  —  dying — man  I" 

They  bore  him  to  the  green-room,  and  laid  him 
upon  the  sofa. 

"Is  he  fatally  injured  ?  n  "How  came  he  by  a 
sharp  dagger  ?  "  "  Was  it  an  accident  ?  "  were  the 
whispered  queries  of  pallid  lips  on  every  side. 

Elma  knelt  by  the  couch,  and  with  firm  and  skilful 
hands  essayed  to  bind  up  the  wound. 

He  shook  his  head,  as  he  regarded  her,  and 
said,  hoarsely,  "Past  all  surgery!'7  Then,  with  a 
painful  effort,  he  lifted  his  hand,  felt  in  his  bosom, 
took  thence  a  stained  and  crumpled  paper,  and  thrust 
it  into  her  hands. 

His  voice  was  so  faint  that  she  could  scarcely  dis- 
tinguish his  words  (so  she  bore  testimony  after- 
wards), but  shp  thought  they  were,  "  It  is  annulled ; 


404  /THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

let  the   sacrifice  not  be  in  vain !     Pardon,  0,  my 
God  !     Pardon,  for  her  sake  !  " 

A  portion  of  the  audience  had  rushed  behind  the 
scenes,  and  now  thronged  the  apartment.  From  their 
midst  Mr.  Ruthven  pressed  forward,  with  tottering 
limbs  and  horror-stricken  countenance.  When  he 
saw  Elma  bending  over  Mortimer,  with  crimsoned 
hands  and  garments,  he  would  have  fallen,  had  not  a 
manly  arm  supported  him.    It  was  that  of  Edmonton. 

Mortimer's  glazing  eyes  turned  to  his  aged  friend, 
and  to  him  by  whose  arm  he  was  sustained.  He 
motioned  them  to  draw  near.  The  old  man  appeared 
stupefied  by  grief.  He  seemed  incapable  of  obeying 
Mortimer's  gesture.  It  supplicated  him  to  bend 
down,  that  he  might  catch  the  words  the  dying  man 
could  with  difficulty  articulate.  But  Edmonton 
bowed  his  head  close  to  the  pale  and  stiffening  lips. 

When  he  raised  his  face  again,  Mortimer  had  ex- 
pired. 

Whether  the  fatal  blow  had  been  deliberately 
given,  whether  it  was  purely  accidental,  whether  it 
had  been  inflicted  in  a  state  of  uncontrollable  excite* 
ment,  produced  by  his  portrayal  of  Bertram's  stormy 
passions,  none  knew  to  a  certainty.  If  it  were  a 
deed  of  wilful  crime,  God  alone  could  judge  him,  — 
God  alone  beheld  the  maddening  throes  of  his  lov- 
ing, yet  renouncing,  clinging,  yet  despairing,  spirit. 

The  history  of  Gerald  Mortimer  remained  un- 
revealed.  If  Mr.  Ruthven  possessed  a  clue  by  which 
it  could  have  been  traced,  this  last  shock  had  so  far 
impaired  his  memory  that  the  questions  of  the  coro- 
ner failed  to  discover  the  missing  thread. 

****** 


THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  405 

One  year  after  that  night  of  tragic  horror,  a 
thronged  audience  were  collected  in  the  Dublin 
Theatre  Royal.  They  had  assembled  to  receive  the 
adieu  of  one  who  was  dear  to  them  for  her  mother's 
sake,  and  honored  for  her  own. 

Elma  would  have  glided  unmarked  from  a  profes- 
sion which  she  had  never  loved,  —  "  the  world  forget- 
ting, by  the  world  forgot," — but  for  her  reverence  to 
the  wishes  of  her  father,  who  was  obstinately  punc- 
tilious in  all  professional  and  public  observances. 
"  The  unruly  waywardness  that  infirm  and  choleric 
years  bring  with  them  "  rendered  even  his  daughter's 
entreaties  powerless  ;  he  would  not  allow  her  to  dis- 
pense with  this  formal  farewell. 

Since  Mortimer's  tragical  death  Mr.  Ruthven's 
mind  was  gradually  weaned  from  its  fondness  for 
the  stage.  He  had  slowly  consented  to  Elma's 
casting  off  the  glittering  chain  that  had  long  pressed 
heavily  on  her  unambitious,  unworldly  heart. 

Elma  had  personated  the  Maid  of  Mariendorpt,  one 
of  the  few  characters  which  she  loved  to  represent, 
for  the  last  time.  The  curtain  had  fallen.  When  it 
rose  again,  she  was  standing  where,  less  than  two 
years  before,  her  mother  had  sat  hearkening  to  fare- 
well plaudits,  which  sounded  musical  even  to  her 
dying  ears.  They  had  no  such  melody  for  those 
of  her  child. 

A  serene  joy  lighted  Elma's  countenance,  as,  with 
quiet,  courteous  dignity,  she  bowed  her  adieu.  No 
accents  passed  her  lips.  What  had  she  to  say? 
She  had  done  her  duty,  they  had  rewarded  her,  she 
thanked  them.     That  was  conveyed  without  words. 

The   injudicious  few  were  not   content,  and  de- 


406     '  THE     UNKNOWN     TRAGEDIAN. 

manded  a  vocal  farewell.  Elma  met  the  request 
with  a  smile  that  softened  her  denial,  but  gave  no 
hope  of  compliance,  and  silenced  entreaty. 

The  descending  curtain  shut  out  that  gay  throng 
forever,  and  Elma  rejoiced.  She  was  no  longer  an 
actress ! 

She  turned  to  her  former  associates,  her  fellow- 
laborers,  and  gave  her  hand  to  every  one  in  turn, 
and  spoke  a  few  gentle  words  even  to  the  humblest. 
They  gathered  around  her,  uttering  tearful  adieus, 
and  blessings,  and  thanks  for  past  kindnesses.  Then 
her  father  led  her  away,  and  proudly  told  her  she 
had  done  all  things  well. 

Scarcely  had  they  passed  their  own  threshold 
when  she  was  folded  to  a  heart  as  true  as  ever  beat 
in  mortal  breast,  and  her  own  leaped  joyfully  at  the 
fervent  whisper,  "  The  world's  no  longer !  Mine 
wholly,  mine  forever  !  M 

The  voice  was  that  of  Leonard  Edmonton,  her  affi- 
anced bridegroom. 

In  a  parish  church,  near  Dublin,  a  youthful  pastor 
was  preaching  his  first  sermon  to  the  little  flock  in- 
trusted to  his  care.  Heaven  had  gifted  him  with 
wondrous  eloquence.  Oratory  was  applied  to  its 
highest,  holiest  use. 

"Persuasion's  golden  flood, 

Gushing  from  depth  of  heart  and  brain, 
Rolled  o'er  the  sluggish  multitude 
In  turbid  wave  on  wave  amain  !  "  * 

The  messenger  had  chosen  for  his  text,  "  Behold,  I 
bring  you  good  tidings  of  great  joy." 

*  John  Locke. 


THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN.  40T 

As  manna  divine  dropped  from  his  lips,  his  face 
shone  almost  "as  the  face  of  an  angel ;w  or,  rather, 
as  though  the  angelic  host  who  inspired  his  thoughts 
had  shed  upon  his  the  reflection  of  their  own  radiant 
countenances. 

His  listeners  grew  light  of  heart  as  they  hearkened. 
Darkly  despairing  minds  received  a  ray  of  hope. 
The  sad  were  comforted,  the  faint-hearted  grew 
strong,  the  struggling  were  touched  with  peace,  the 
true  laborers  tasted  of  the  precious  grapes  that  grew 
in  the  vineyard  of  their  Lord. 

There  were  but  three  occupants  in  the  pew  nearest 
to  the  chancel.  At  the  further  end  sat  an  aged  man 
with  face  upraised,  in  rapt  attention,  gratefully  wel- 
coming these  "good  tidings,"  which  had  only  come 
to  him  after  the  snows  of  eighty  years  had  fallen 
upon  his  head.  Could  this  be  the  u  stage  villain," 
at  whose  portraitures  of  crime  men  once  had  trem- 
bled ? 

His  venerable  companion,  at  the  opposite  extrem- 
ity of  the  pew,  was  some  ten  years  younger.  Few 
and  pleasant  were  the  lines  that  time  had  traced 
upon  his  benignant  countenance.  Those  "  good 
tidings  "  had  been  inscribed  upon  his  heart  in  youth, 
yet  were  they  ever  new.  More  than  once  he  turned 
from  the  preacher  to  gaze  fondly  upon  one  who  sat 
between  him  and  the  other  occupant  of  the  pew.  It 
was  that  young  pastor's  wife,  the  old  man's  newly- 
bestowed  daughter.  He  watched  every  change  of 
her  soft  and  lovely  visage,  as 

"  Now  and  then  an  ample  tear  trilled  down 
Her  delicate  cheek," 


408  THE     UNKNOWN    TRAGEDIAN. 

while  the  peaceful  smile  upon  her  lips  seemed  in- 
deed 

"  not  to  know  < 

What  guests  were  in  her  eyes,  which  parted  thence 

As  pearls  from  diamonds  dropped  !  " 

Was  Elma  happy?  Had  she  made  a  rich  ex- 
change ?  The  answer  was  written  upon  her  counte- 
nance in  characters  so  luminous  that  even  the 
blinded  eyes  of  erring  mortals  could  not  misinter- 
pret them. 


FINIS. 


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THE  DESERT  HOME:  or,  The  Adventures  of  a  Lost  Family 
in  the  Wilderness.    With  fine  Plates,  $1.00. 

THE  BOY  HUNTERS.  With  fine  Plates.  Just  published.  Price 
75  cents. 

THE  YOUNG  VOYAGEURS:  or,  The  Boy  Hunters  in  the 
North.    With  Plates.     Price  75  cents. 

THE  FOREST  EXILES.    With  fine  Plates.    75  cents. 


A   LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISIIED 


GOETHE'S  WRITINGS. 

WILHELM  MEISTER.    Translated  by  Thomas  Carlyle.  2  vols. 

Price  $2.50. 
GOETHE'S  FAUST.    Translated  by  Hayward.    Price  75  cents. 

R.  H.  STODDARD'S  WRITINGS. 

POEMS.    Cloth.    Price  63  cents. 

ADVENTURES  IN  FAIRY  LAND.    Price  75  cents. 


REV.  CHARLES  LOWELL,  D.  D. 

PRACTICAL  SERMONS.    1  vol.    12mo.    $1.25. 
OCCASIONAL  SERMONS.    With  fine  Portrait.    $1.25. 

GEORGE  LUNT. 

LYRIC  POEMS,  &c.    Cloth.    63  cents. 
JULIA.    A  Poem.    50  cents. 

PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY. 

THE  MYSTIC,  AND  OTHER  POEMS.    50  cents, 
THE  ANGEL  WORLD,  &c.    50  cents. 

ANNA   MARY  HOWITT. 

AN  ART  STUDENT  IN  MUNICH.    Price  $1.25. 
A  SCHOOL  OF  LIFE.    A  Story.    Price  75  cents. 


BY    TIOKNOR   AND    FIELDS. 


MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD'S  WRITINGS. 

OUR  VILLAGE.    Illustrated.    2  vols.    16mo.    Price  $2.50. 
ATHERTON,  AND  OTHER  STORIES.    1  vol.    16mo.    $1.25. 

MRS.   CROSLAND'S   WRITINGS. 

LYDIA:    A  WOMAN'S   BOOK.    Cloth.    Price  75  cents. 
ENGLISH  TALES  AND   SKETCHES.    Cloth.    $1.00. 
MEMORABLE  WOMEN.    Illustrated.    $1.00. 

GRACE    GREENWOOD'S  WRITINGS. 

GREENWOOD  LEAVES.    1st  &  2d  Series.    $1.25  each. 
POETICAL  WORKS.    With  fine  Portrait.    Price  75  cents. 
HISTORY  OF  MY  PETS.    With  six  fine  Engravings.    Scarlet 
cloth.    Price  50  cents. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD.    With  six  fine  En- 
gravings.   Scarlet  cloth.    Price  50  cents. 

HAPS    AND    MISHAPS    OF    A  TOUR    IN  EUROPE.     Price 

$1.25. 

MERRIE  ENGLAND.     A  new  Juvenile.    Price  75  cents. 

A  FOREST  TRAGEDY,  AND  OTHER  TALES.    (In  Press.) 

A  NEW  JUVENILE.    (In  Press.) 

MRS.  MOWATT. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS.  Price  $1.25. 
PLAYS.  ARMAND  AND  FASHION.  Price  50  cents. 
..MIMIC  LIFE.    1vol.    Price  $1.25. 


A    LTST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED 


ALICE    CARY. 

POEMS.    1  vol.    16mo.    Price  $1.00. 
CLOVERNOOK  CHILDREN.    With  Plates.    75  cents. 


MRS.  TAPPAN. 

RAINBOWS  FOR  CHILDREN.    Illustrated.    75  cents. 
THE  MAGICIAN'S  SHOW  BOX.    Illustrated.    75  cents. 

MRS.   ELIZA   LEE. 

MEMOIR  OF  THE  BUCKMINSTERS.     $1.25. 
FLORENCE,  The  Parish  Orphan.    50  cents. 

MRS.  JUDSON'S  WRITINGS. 

ALDERBROOK.    By  Fanny  Forrester.   2  vols.    Price  $1.75. 
THE  KATHAYAN    SLAVE,  AND    OTHER  PAPERS.     1  voL 

Price  63  cents. 
MY  TWO  SISTERS:  A  Sketch  from  Memory.  Price  50  cents. 


POETRY. 

ALEXANDER  SMITH'S  POEMS.    1vol.    16mo.    Cloth.    Price 

50  cents. 
CHARLES  MACKAY'S  POEMS.     1  vol.    Cloth.    Price  $1.00. 
HENRY  ALFORD'S  POEMS.    Just  out.    Price  $1.25. 
RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES.     Poems  of  Many  Years. 

Boards.    Price  75  cents. 


BY    TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 


CHARLES  SPRAGUE.    Poetical  and  Prose  Writings.    With 
fine  Portrait.    Boards.    Price  75  cents. 

GERMAN  LYRICS.    Translated  by  Charles  T.  Brooks.    1  vol. 
16mo.    Cloth.    Price  $1.00. 

THOMAS  W.  PARSONS.    Poems.    Price  $1.00. 

LYTERIA:    A  Dramatic  Poem.     By  J.  P.  Quincy.    Price  50 

cents. 

JOHN  G.   SAXE.     Poems.     With  Portrait.     Boards,  63  cents. 
Cloth,  75  cents. 

HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN.    Poems.    Cloth.    Price  75  cents. 

BOWRING'S  MATINS  AND  VESPERS.    Price  50  cents. 

YRIARTE'S  FABLES.    Translated  by  G.  H.  Devereux.    Price 
63  cents. 

MEMORY   AND    HOPE.     A  Book   of   Poems,  referring  to 
Childhood.    Cloth.    Price  $2.00. 

THALATTA:  A  Book  for  the  Sea-Side.    1  vol.„16mo.   Cloth. 
Price  75  cents. 

PASSION-FLOWERS.    By  Mrs.  Howe.    Price  75  cents.    . 

PHCEBE  CARY.    Poems  and  Parodies.    75  cents. 


MISCELLANEOUS 


G.  H.  LEWES.  The  Life  and  Works  of  Goethe.  2  vols. 
16mo. 

OAKFIELD.    A  Novel.    By  Lieut.  Arnold.    Price  $1.00. 

ESSAYS  ON  THE  FORMATION  OF  OPINIONS  AND  THE 
PURSUIT  OF  TRUTH.    1  vol.  16mo.    Price  $1.00. 

WALDEN:  or,  Life  in  the  Woods.  By  Henry  D.  Tho- 
reau.    1  vol.    16mo.    Price  $1.00. 

LIGHT  ON  THE  DARK  RIVER  :  or,  Memoirs  of  Mrs. 
Hamlin.    1  vol.    16mo.    Cloth.    Price  $1.00. 


10  A   LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED 


WILLIAM  MOUNTFORD.  Thorpe:  A  Quiet  English  Town, 
and  Human  Life  therein.    16mo.    Price  $1.00. 

NOTES  FROM  LIFE.  By  Henry  Taylor,  author  of  '  Philip 
Van  Artevelde.'    1  vol.    16mo.    Cloth.    Price  63  cents. 

REJECTED  ADDRESSES.  By  Horace  and  James  Smith. 
Boards,  Price  60  cents.    Cloth,  63  cents. 

WARRENIANA.  A  Companion  to  the  '  Rejected  Addresses.'  Price 
63  cents. 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH'S   BIOGRAPHY.    2  vols.    $2.50. 

ART  OF  PROLONGING  LIFE.  By  Hufeland.  Edited  by 
Erasmus  Wilson,  F.  R.  S.    1  vol.    16mo.    Price  75  cents. 

JOSEPH  T.  BUCKINGHAM'S  PERSONAL  MEMOIRS  AND 
RECOLLECTIONS  OF  EDITORIAL  LIFE.  With  Portrait. 
2  vols.    16mo.    Price  $1.50. 

VILLAGE  LIFE  IN  EGYPT.  By  the  Author  of  •  Purple  Tints  of 
Paris.'    2  vols.    16mo.    Price  $1.25. 

DR.  JOHN  C.  WARREN.  The  Preservation  of  Health,  &c. 
1  vol.    Price  38  cents. 

PRIOR'S  LIFE  OF  EDMUND  BURKE.    2  vols.    $2.00. 

NATURE  IN  DISEASE.  By  Dr.  Jacob  Bigelow.  1  vol.  16mo. 
Price  $1.50. 

WENSLEY:  A  Story  Without  a  Moral.    Price  75  cents. 

GOLDSMITH.  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Illustrated  Edition. 
Price  $3.00. 

PALISSY  THE  POTTER.  By  the  Author  of  «  How  to  make  Home 
Unhealthy.'    2  vols.     16mo.    Price  $1.50. 

THE  BARCLAYS  OF  BOSTON.  By  Mrs.  H.  G.  Otis.  1  vol. 
12mo.    $1.25. 


BY   TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS.  11 

HORACE  MANN.    Thoughts  fob  a  Young  Man.    25  cents. 

F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD.    Sermons  of  Consolation.    $1.00. 

THE  BOSTON  BOOK.    Price  $1.25. 

ANGEL-VOICES.    Price  38  cents. 

SIR  ROGER  DE  CO VERLEY.    From  the  '  Spectator.'    75  cents. 

S.  T.  WALLIS.    Spain,  her  Institutions,  Politics,  and  Pub- 
lic Men.    Price  $1.00. 

MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  WHEATON.    1  vol.    Price  $1.00. 

LABOR  AND  LOVE  :    A  Tale  of  English  Life.     50  cents. 

Mrs.  PUTNAM'S  RECEIPT  BOOK  ;    An  Assistant  to  House- 
keepers.   1  vol.    16mo.    Price  50  cents. 

Mbs.  A.  C.  LOWELL.    Education  of  Gibls.    Price  25  cents. 

THE  SOLITARY  OF  JUAN  FERNANDEZ.    By  the  Author  of 
Picciola.    Price  50  cents. 

RUTH.    A  New  Novel  by  the  Author  of  ■  Maey  Babton.'    Cheap 
Edition.    Price  38  cents. 


EACH  OF  THE  ABOVE  POEMS  AND  PBOSE  WETTINGS,  MAY  BE  HAD 
IN  VABIOUS  STYLES  OF  HANDSOME   BINDING. 


Ddr*  Any  book  published  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  will  be  sent  by 
mail,  postage  free,  on  receipt  of  publication  price. 

Their  stock  of  Miscellaneous  Books  is  very  complete,  and  they 
respectfully  solicit  orders  from  CITY  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRA- 
RIES. 


ILLUSTRATED 

JUVENILE    BOOKS. 


CURIOUS  STORIES  ABOUT  FAIRIES.    75  cents. 

KIT  BAM'S  ADVENTURES.    75  cents. 

THE  FOREST  EXILES.    75  cents. 

THE  DESERT  HOME.    $1.00. 

THE  BOY  HUNTERS.    75  cents. 

THE  YOUNG  VOYAGEURS.    75  cents. 

A  BOY'S  ADVENTURES  IN  AUSTRALIA.    75  cents. 

RAINBOWS  FOR  CHILDREN.    75  cents. 

THF  MAGICIAN'S  SHOW  BOX.    75  cents. 

TANGLE  WOOD  TALES.    75  cents. 

A  WONDER  BOOK  FOR  GIRLS  AND  BOYS.    75  cents. 

TRUE  STORIES  FROM  HISTORY  AND  BIOGRAPAY.    75  cts. 

MERRIE  ENGLAND.    By  Grace  Greenwood.    75  cents. 

CLOVERNOOK  CHLIDREN.    75  cents. 

ADVENTURES  IN  FAIRY  LAND.    75  cents. 

HISTORY  OF  MY  PETS.    By  Grace  Greenwood.    50  cents. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD.    50  cents. 

FLORENCE,  THE  PARISH  ORPHAN.    50  cents. 

MEMOIRS  OF  A  LONDON  DOLL.    50  cents. 

THE  DOLL  AND  HER  FRIENDS.    50  cents. 

TALES  FROM  CATLAND.    50  cents. 

AUNT  EFFIE'S  RHYMES  FOR  LITTLE  CHILDREN.  75  cents. 

THE  STORY  OF  AN  APPLE.    50  cents. 

THE  GOOD  NATURED  BEAR.     75  cents. 

PETER  PARLEY'S   SHORT  STORIES  FOR  LONG  NIGHTS. 

50  cents. 
THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION.  38  cents. 
THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  NEW  ENGLAND  STATES.  38  cents. 
THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  MIDDLE  STATES.     38  cents. 
THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES.    38  cents. 
THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  WESTERN  STATES.    38  cents. 
THE  SOLITARY  OF  JUAN  FERNANDEZ.     50  cents. 
JACK  HALLIARD'S  VOYAGES.    38  cents. 
THE  INDESTRUCTIBLE  BOOKS  FOR  CHILDREN.     Each  15 

cents. 


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